


Endgame

by jadey36



Category: Robin Hood BBC
Genre: Drama, Friendship, M/M, Male Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-09
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2017-10-19 21:37:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 37
Words: 107,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/205473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jadey36/pseuds/jadey36
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything is a choice, everything we do.  And I made a choice.  I chose him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> This is the sequel to _Everything is a Choice_.

**The story so far...**

Sheriff Vaisey is dead, murdered by Guy of Gisborne while on board the boat headed back to England from the Holy Land. Soon after his death, the boat sank sending the sheriff’s body to a watery grave.

With Richard the Lionheart still in Palestine, trying to make peace with the Saracens, Prince John has seized the opportunity to claim Nottingham castle as his own, with his eye on the throne of England as the ultimate prize.

Meanwhile, having survived the boat’s sinking and a journey across France on horseback, Robin, Much, Allan and Little John, along with Guy, have returned safely to Nottingham albeit under wildly different circumstances to anything they could have imagined.

Robin’s hatred of Guy became friendship and then something more and, after much agonising, he has decided to pursue an intimate relationship with his one-time enemy and his wife’s murderer, much to the disgust and displeasure of what’s left of his gang.

Can Robin and Guy survive both the gang’s animosity and their own bloody history? Can they keep the nature of their relationship a secret from the people of Locksley and its surrounds? And can Robin find happiness with Guy and still be Robin Hood or is his world about to come crashing down?

 


	2. Home

Locksley. My home. I lost it in all but name when I returned from the Holy Land, defied Sheriff Vaisey and became an outlaw. Does my present behaviour mean I am about to lose it again?

“Are you all right?”

My answer is to slip a hand into his hand. Whatever the consequences, I am going to do this. There is only one person, other than myself, who is going to stop me, and the fact that Guy’s fingers are curled around my own proves that he has no intention of doing any such thing. He wants me as much as I want him and, somehow, we are going to make this work.

There are some children larking about by the pond. Two young women are laughing as they struggle to hang linen to dry in the chill November wind. An old man draws water from the well. Ordinary life is going on.

_Ordinary._ I nearly choke on the word.

There has been nothing ordinary about the course of my life, and certainly not the past few months. Burying my beloved Marian in Acre. Narrowly escaping a pirate’s blade destined for my heart. Dragged from the sea after our boat sank, and saved from despair and the desire to end my life by the man currently holding my hand.

Now, here I am, standing atop this familiar grassy hill, looking down at my home. Standing next to the man who has given me reason to go on. Who has gone from being my enemy to my friend, and who will soon be my lover, given the chance – Guy of Gisborne.

There is still time to change my mind, of course. I can still choose not to cross that final line. Tell him I have changed my mind. Tell him now and walk away. Go make friends with my gang again. Go be Robin Hood.

The winter wind is biting, but I notice his hand is warm as he laces our fingers together. It strikes me he’s stopped wearing those trademark gloves of his. I’m not complaining, but I can’t think straight while we are touching and I wrest my hand from his.

Guy turns to face me, asks. “Is everything all right? Are we going down now?”

“Yes, everything’s fine, but we can’t walk down there holding hands.”

“No, of course not.”

“The gang knowing about us is one thing,” I say, “but the villagers cannot know, must never know. It would be the end of both of us. Certainly, it’ll be the end of us living in Locksley.”

“It’s all right, Robin. I understand.”

I like it when he says my first name. He’s been doing it a lot today. Perhaps he likes the feel of it on his tongue. He makes me smile, this new Guy.

“How will you explain my living in your house, with you?” he asks.

“Don’t worry. I have a plan.”

“Isn’t that what you always say?”

“Fair point. But I do.”

He looks at me, expectant.

I do have a plan, well, half a plan. I do. But anything could happen. Not everything is in my control. Not everything is a choice.

“Come here,” I say.

I slide my hands under his long dark hair, rest them on his neck and seek out his mouth with my own. This togetherness, tongues and warm breaths, is enough to silence his fears.

I meant it as a placatory kiss – a promise of what is to come. But I have been in an anticipatory state ever since we left the gang in the forest some short time ago and it would be so easy to give into my desires, pull him down into the long grass and do the deed here and now. Only the thought of discovery by either our mutual enemy, namely Prince John or his guards, or a passing peasant prevents me from suggesting such.

Guy groans into my mouth and I end the kiss. A good job too. Walking into my village in a state of arousal will never do. I mean, surely no one can be that happy about being home!

My abrupt dismissal of him does not bother Guy. In fact, he seems positively amused.

“Have I said you’re a damn good kisser, Locksley?”

“Several times,” I reply.

Guy tosses back his head and laughs – an abandoned laugh. I really like him like this, much more than I know I should. And I see something. A shadow of Marian that shouldn’t be there, but is.

“Shall we go home then?” he says.

Everything is a choice, everything we do.Her words, not mine. And I had chosen Guy, against all the odds, and against my better judgment. I don’t regret the choice, and nor have I come to it lightly. Because until that moment he kissed me, in the forest, up until then I had fought it tooth and nail, thinking it was all some weird part of the grieving process for Marian and hoping it would go away. But it didn’t go away. And I made a choice.

I shoulder my bow. Then, keeping a civilised distance between us, we head down the hill towards Locksley. Towards home and an uncertain future.


	3. Uneasy Beginnings

I had hoped we could make our way unimpeded, that we could open the door to Locksley Manor and simply lock it behind us. However, the moment we reach the outskirts of the village, I hear the children by the pond shouting _Robin Hood_ at the top of their voices and see them excitedly pointing in my direction. The man at the well and the two women hanging washing turn their heads. Unlike the children, they do not seem overly happy to see me, and even less happy about the man walking at my side. 

I lengthen my stride and Guy does likewise.

A handful of peasants emerge from their cottages, doubtless hearing the children’s shrieks. I smile at them but they are looking at Guy, frowns on their faces, and don’t return my smile.

Guy doesn’t care about the villagers’ dark scowls. Defiance oozes from him. I glance at him. A knowing smile graces his lips. He knows he is safe from any reprisals from my peasants (as if they would dare) because he is with me.

More villagers spill out of their doorways. Despite their mistrust of Guy, they see no obvious reason to scatter to the four winds as they did that bloodthirsty day just a couple of weeks ago. The day I left a trail of blood in my wake. The day I took Rowena, their new guardian angel, from them, and since when there has been no word of our whereabouts. But they are suspicious, and it wouldn’t surprise me if they thought I’d thrown in my lot with Prince John, considering my present companion.

They have every right, of course. Guy was once their cruel master. They had had to endure his angry tirades, his ruthless hand and his cold stares. Everything from the sharp sting of a mocking taunt, to the barbarity of his condoning the cutting out of tongues. They do not trust him, and they do not understand why he walks beside me now, neither in shackles nor in shame.

Nessa is the first to approach.

“Master, Robin?” She gives a deferential bob of her head, flicks a questioning glance at Guy.

“Nessa.” I wait for her usual maternal hug and receive none.

She had plenty of hugs for me the last time we met, in her overcrowded little house, surrounded by her many children and dresses and little pots of lavender. Before we discovered a fevered Guy in our camp, before Matilda offered to poison him, and before that moment I held his hand in mine and knew that I wanted him.

It crosses my mind that Matilda has told them. I quickly dismiss it. She promised to keep my want of Guy to herself and if there is one thing I know about that woman, it is that she is always true to her word.

“Nessa,” I try again. “How are you?”

“Big. And tired.” She strokes her swollen belly.

“And is the family all right?”

She knows I mean in terms of food and money. This new baby will make seven children, eight if you count her husband, who would do well to learn to count. Nessa had jokingly offered me one or two of her children while I had sat eating fruit bread in her house, still unaware that among the many dresses awaiting her sewing skills, Marian’s favourite hung, the reason for my hasty retreat.

My chest tightens. Even though the rawness of losing Marian is gone, these small reminders of her still catch at my heart.

“We’ll be fine, Master Robin, but what about—”

She gives Guy another quick look and presses her lips together, unwilling to say what is on her mind.

The villagers have formed into a semi-circle behind Nessa and it is apparent they are waiting for me to speak.

I want to say Guy, but I’m not sure I can get away with calling him that in front of them, not yet, at least. Gisborne doesn’t feel right either.

“Sir Guy,” I eventually manage, “is on our side now.”

Mutterings of dissent ripple through the assembled villagers. I give them a hard stare and they cast their eyes downward, instantly apologetic at talking out of turn in front of their rightful master.

“We have come to an understanding,” I explain. “For the time being, he will be a guest in my house and will be treated accordingly.”

Although still clearly suspicious, it appears no one is about to question my reasons or motives.

Guy clears his throat as if to speak. I quickly motion him down with a flick of my hand. I don’t like the idea of him giving a speech, especially as one word out of turn from one of the villagers might invoke that quick temper of his. I’m damned if I’m going to get into a fight with him this early on in our relationship. Thankfully, he holds his tongue.

Realising I have spoken my piece, the villagers shuffle backwards, at the same time creating a small opening for Guy and me to walk through. I nod in appreciation.

Side by side, Guy and I pass through the silent villagers and walk the final few yards to the manor house, our promised land.

~

The front door. In or out? My choice.

Our hands collide as we both reach for the door latch at the same time.

“After you.” Guy makes an exaggerated show of waving me in. “It is _your_ house, after all.”

I bite my tongue and push open the door.

In or out? I can’t seem to move.

Guy nudges me aside. He unsheathes his sword and leaves it in the inner hallway, next to the snow shovel. I follow him in, pushing aside my misgivings. After a moment’s hesitation, I leave my own weapons beside his. Guy is already in the main hall, leaning against the heavy oak table, waiting for me to join him. I stand in the doorway, suddenly afraid.

“What’s the matter?” he asks. “Décor not to your liking?”

I can’t tell if he’s trying to be funny or if he’s irritated at my inability to enter the room. I step into the hall, shutting the door behind me. My heartbeat sounds deafening in the quiet house.

“I’m just going to look around,” I tell him. “Check the place out.”

“What?” Guy says. His upper lip curls into a sneer. “Worried your precious gang (I’d hardly call Much and Allan a gang) have ignored your instruction to wait a couple of days before disturbing us and are hiding in the house waiting to spring out on us while we’re doing dirty things to each other.”

I think he is enjoying my discomfort.

“I won’t be long.”

I make my way upstairs, my heart still thumping painfully.

What is wrong with me? I’d been positively aching for him, up on the hill, ever since our first kiss in fact and that almost moment in the camp, just before Matilda caught me with my breeches around my ankles and Guy on his knees in front of me. So why hesitate, now that we’ve finally made it to the sanctuary of the house? Is it because I fear the act itself will not live up to my wild imaginings, or is there a more pertinent reason for my hesitation in doing dirty things with Guy, as he put it? This is my home. It is here I would have lived with Marian, my wife. Yet, here I am, about to sully it with my sordid desires.

It doesn’t take me long to determine we have the place to ourselves.

I’m halfway down the stairs. My heart’s still too loud. My throat’s dry. Someone is knocking on the front door.

Guy grunts in annoyance.

The knock sounds again, louder this time.

“If it’s that simpleton, Much, I’ll—”

“Whoever it is,” I say, interrupting Guy’s threat, “I will deal with it. I don’t want any trouble. Do you understand?”

Guy nods, somewhat reluctantly, I think.

~

I don’t recognise the girl, but I guess by the little bunch of dried lavender she is clutching in her hand that she is one of Nessa’s elder daughters.

“Yes?”

“Beg pardon, my lord.” The girl curtseys. “My mother sent me here to see if you still need my services.”

“Your services?”

“Only I helped that kind lady, Rowena, when she was here, and my mother thought as maybe you’d like me to carry on with the linen and larder and such.”

“That’s very kind of your mother to think of us, but I don’t think—”

_Us. God, what am I doing? We’re an ‘us’ now, are we?_

“Did she pay you?” I ask.

“She gave us food and a few coins when she could.”

“Of course she did. Here.” I unclip the small money pouch from my belt and press some coins into her free hand. “Sir Guy and I have matters to discuss, important matters, and don’t wish to be disturbed at the moment. But we will most definitely need our larder replenished at some point, so perhaps I might call on you when I need you. Would that be all right?”

“Thank you, my lord.”

She stares at the coins in her hand as if hardly daring to believe they’re real, then remembers her manners and gives me another quick curtsey. She turns to leave and then turns back again and thrusts the bunch of lavender into my hand. The dried stalks stick to my clammy palms.

I watch her walk away. I didn’t even ask her her name.

“Important matters,” Guy scoffs.

I start. I didn’t hear him creep up behind me. My heart starts to pound again, not in fear this time, but in anticipation. I am ready for him now. Ready for the darkness.

He comes at me fast, rams me up against the closed door and takes possession of my mouth. I let go of the dried herbs, hear the crunch of them under his heavy boots. The smoky-sweet scent of lavender mixes with his warm breath in my mouth. He tastes of heat and leather and male. I want him. I want his hot, hungry kisses. I want those slender yet powerful hands, which could so easily break my neck, touch every part of me.

He fumbles with his belt buckle.

A heavy rap on the door startles me into his chest.

“Oh, for pity’s sake!” Guy exclaims. He yanks me away from the door, nearly throwing me off my feet.

It is Luke Scarlett. Guy shoves his face at him and Luke steps back in alarm.

“What do you want?” Guy demands.

There is a nasty edge to his voice, though I can’t say I’m surprised. These constant interruptions are not what we were hoping for during our first night alone together in Locksley.

“Guy,” I say in a warning undertone.

“Robin?” Luke’s brow creases. “Is everything all right?”

Guy mutters something offensive.

“Yes, all is well. What is it? Has something happened to Rowena?”

“No, she’s fine. She asked me to fetch her things.”

“Her things?”

“Yes. She left some stuff here, clothes and things. She asked me to fetch them for her.”

“Oh, I see.”

It occurs to me that Rowena had deliberately left some of her possessions behind in the hope that she might return to Locksley Manor one day, quite possibly as my wife.

I beckon Luke inside. He follows me into the main hall, Guy right behind him. “Wait in here,” I tell him. “I’ll go fetch her things for you.”

I shoot Guy a warning look and make my way to the kitchen. I remember seeing a jug of wine on my earlier inspection of the house and figure it might keep Guy from throttling Luke, and possibly me, too.

“Here!” I bang both the jug and a large wooden mug on the tabletop. Empty tableware jumps.

“What’s that for?” Guy asks.

“Well it’s not to wash in,” I snap.

He snatches up the mug and I half-duck, expecting it to come my way, along with the jug. Instead, he carelessly grabs the jug, pours too fast and spills the wine. A viscous, red pool snakes towards the edge of the table.

“To us,” he says. He raises the mug in mock salute and then brushes past me, deliberately sliding his long slim fingers across my shirtfront.

“I won’t be long,” I tell both him and Luke.

I make my way upstairs once more.

~

My bedchamber, at least what’s left of it.

Bits of broken jug still lie scattered on the floor, along with the smashed table. At the bed’s end is the rumpled blanket, a stark reminder of my indecent yearning for the man downstairs, evidence of which I would doubtless find should I care to give the sheet closer inspection.

I find Rowena’s clothing in the chest under the window and quickly gather it into a bundle. I think I’ve found everything of hers. But I’m not paying proper attention to my feet and trip on something – a piece of broken table. I have to pick the clothes up. Everything’s going wrong. It’s a wonder I don’t fall down the stairs.

Luke is standing in the hall doorway, warily eyeing Guy. Guy is drinking and doesn’t seem to care about Luke’s scrutiny.

They both look up as I thud down the stairs.

“Here.”

I thrust the bundle of clothes into Luke’s arms and all but push him out of the house.

When I return to the hall, I find Guy leaning against the table, a lascivious grin on his face. Wine is dripping over the table edge, pooling on the floor. It looks like blood, smells like a memory – my three days in a stifling room in Acre, drunk, unwashed and out of my head with grief. I need to push Acre away if I am to do this.

_If I kiss him, I’ll forget Acre. I’ll probably even forget my own name._

He meets me halfway across the hall, grabs my upper arms and yanks me into his chest. I can feel the hard metal clasps running the length of his doublet digging through my worn linen shirt. My hands clutch the back of his head. Our lips meet. We are tongues and longing. We are alone. We are unstoppable.

Guy whips me round, drives me backwards and slams me against the hard edge of the table. Something – an empty vase, I think – smashes.

Lust coats my tongue. I can taste my own darkness spilling into his. I like it. I like the wantonness of it and the fact that there are no boundaries, no codes of conduct to follow, just him and me and all this pent up desire and longing, about to come to fruition.

He tugs my shirt from my belt, slides a warm hand across my chest. “You want this?”

“You know I do.”

“Then say it.”

“What?”

“Let me hear you say it.”

His questing hand slips past my navel, pushes into my breeches and stops.

“I want you,” I say.

“More than that.”

He jerks his hand away. He is playing with me and I am too hungry for it not to give in to his demands.

“Touch me, Guy. I can’t—I need—” _Spit it out, Robin._ “Fuck me, for God’s sake!”

“Now,” he says, his voice a husky purr, “ask me nicely.”

I really want those hands.

“Please.”

“Better.”

“Bastard.”

Grinning, Guy starts unbuckling my belt. He has me and he knows it. What’s more, he knows I know it. I don’t care, because for the first time in our turbulent relationship I am more than willing to surrender to Guy of Gisborne.


	4. If Only

“Hell’s teeth!”

Guy whips his hands out of my breeches with such vehemence I think I must be doing something wrong.

No, it isn’t me. Someone is at the front door – again.

“Ignore it,” he hisses, grasping my upper arms, restraining me.

“I can’t. I—”

“I said, ignore it.”

His grip tightens, reminding me how powerful he is and how thin and weak I have become. He’s hurting my injured arm.

The knock sounds again, louder and with more urgency.

“God almighty! We might as well be living in a bloody tavern for all the good this is doing us.”

Guy lets go of me and stomps out of the room.

He is right. I should never have suggested that Locksley be the place for us to conduct our sinful relationship.

“Whoever’s behind that door is dead,” I hear him grind out.

He is edging nearer to the old Guy. This is not good. Not for me, and not for whoever is behind that door.

I dash out of the main hall, tucking my shirt into my breeches on the way.

“Don’t,” I warn.

His hand on the door latch, Guy turns to me and says, “Give me one good reason not to.”

I can’t. Because I feel like lashing out myself. My much-anticipated night of lust is turning into a complete fiasco. I’m half expecting to find the butcher, the baker and whoever it is who makes candles, standing outside the door.

I glance at the snow shovel and see that Guy’s broadsword is still leaning next to it. My weapons are also untouched. I calm down a little.

“My lord. Are you there?” A woman. One of my peasants most likely.

“What is it?” I call.

“Please. Come quickly.”

I scoop up my bow where it rests alongside Guy’s sword, annoyed when the two snag together.

“I’m on my way,” I say. Then quietly, “Move away from the door, Guy. I will deal with this as quickly as I can.”

For a heartbeat, I wonder if I am going to have to threaten him to get him to step aside, but, glowering at me, he moves out of the way.

I open the door. The woman is familiar; I have seen her somewhere before.

“My boy.” She waves an arm towards the small cluster of cottages on the other side of the village pond.

I remember. She is one of the women I saw hanging washing. Her hair is very long, beyond her waist.

“What has happened?” I ask.

“Joseph is on the roof and won’t come down. Oh, you will come, won’t you, Master Robin.”

Guy sidles up behind me and plants a flat hand on my backside. “Yes, _please come_ , Master Robin,” he says, his face close to my neck, his warm breath fanning my neck hairs.

The woman gives Guy a baffled look, though I think she is too worried about her boy to make any sense of his words.

“Tell me,” I say, trying to concentrate on the woman. I swear he makes my neck hairs curl. How many times had he tried using that undeniably sexy growl on Marian, and how did it fail to work? Very deliberately – more to get him to back off than anything – I grind a heel into his booted foot.

“He says he’ll jump,” she says. “You have to come now.”

Trusting me to follow her, she turns and starts running towards the cottages, holding up her long skirts to avoid tripping over them.

“Let someone else sort out their snivelling problems for once,” Guy says. He thrusts a hand between my thighs.

I whirl around. “Don’t!”

“Aww. Is Robin Hood all hot and bothered?”

“I have to go help. I don’t have a choice.”

“Yes, you do. Everything is a choice.”

“Not when you’re Robin Hood, it isn’t.”

I slam the door behind me, not even bothering to check whether Guy is coming through it or not.

The young woman is already some way ahead of me and I run to catch up.

You were wrong, Marian. So is he. Not everything in life is a choice. Life is chaos, random. All I can do is make things happen – or not.

I pass the church. I’ll never be able to set foot in there again. Not if I do this thing with Guy. Not even if I don’t. The villagers will wonder, of course, why the lord of the manor does not attend church services. They will think it is because God deserted me in the Holy Land by allowing Marian to die. While we were in the forest, licking our wounds and tending to a fevered Guy, Nessa will have told someone who will have told someone that Marian died in the Holy Land defending King Richard. How she died is something I pray they never find out.

_Marry a nice girl, Robin_ , I think. There must be someone suitable out there. Rowena? No. She’ll not want to marry me now, supposing that she ever did; she knows about my desire to bed a man. Someone else then. Anyone. Marry the girl, start a family and forget him. It sounds simple, except for one little detail. I can’t. I want him. It’s the first time I’ve wanted anything this badly since that fateful day when Marian lay impaled and dying upon the hot sand, when I prayed that Djaq would perform a miracle and save her.

I glance behind me. Guy is not following.

His wine-tainted breath chases my own breaths as I run. Under my clothes, my skin still thrills to his absent touch. There’s an unmistakable dampness in my breeches that I’d have a hard time explaining to my mother, if I had one. I imagine him naked and me touching him. The two of us, entangled, on the floor, the bed, somewhere. Flesh touching flesh. The brush of his cock against my own. Me on him. Him on me.

Inside the church, the confessional awaits. But it’s too late – much too late.

~

The longhaired woman is standing outside a small cottage. On the thatch stands a boy. He is holding what looks like a miniature version of my Saracen bow in one hand.

“Look, Joseph,” his mother calls. “I fetched Robin Hood, like I said I would.”

“Wow, look at you.” I give Joseph a smile and a friendly wave. “I thought I was the only show-off around here. How did you get up there?”

“There’s a trellis round the back,” his mother explains.

“So he can get down?”

“I don’t know. He’s never been up there before.”

“Why is he—”

“They were making fun of him, the other lads.”

“Because?”

“Because the carpenter made him a bow shaped like yours, but he’s useless with it. Joseph told them that Robin Hood had promised to teach him and they said the great Robin Hood wouldn’t waste his time on a runt like him.”

I hold my bow up towards Joseph and say, “I’m sorry I forgot about our archery lesson. I’ve been rather busy. Why don’t you come down and we can have a short practise session now.”

Joseph gives me a doubtful look. 

“Or I could come up there,” I say, “and we could practise loosing arrows from on high. It might be fun. What would _you_ like to do, Joseph?”

“I’m coming down,” he says, breaking into a grin.

He disappears from view.

“Thank you, Master Robin,” the woman says.

A handful of villagers who had come to see what the commotion was about clap.

“Hurrah for Robin Hood,” someone shouts.

I will no longer be Robin Hood if they find out about Guy and me.

~

Joseph won’t win the next Silver Arrow contest, that’s for sure, but he could at least hit the target board by the time we finished our archery lesson. Certainly the lads who taunted him earlier might think twice about doing so now.

By the time I reach the house I half expect to find Guy gone or wielding his sword, threatening to run me through for deserting him for so long.

He is neither. He is on the floor, asleep, sprawled in front of a non-existent fire, the empty wine jug beside him. I want to shake the hell out of him but decide against it. I think he is more likely to fight me than fuck me. I don’t want to fight. I’m too damn tired. Everything – her death, the journey home, and this new and frightening thing – has worn me to the point of exhaustion. I need to sleep.

I light a candle and latch the window shutters. It is long past suppertime. The gang will have eaten. I think of them, sitting by the campfire, without me. I wonder if Little John is with them. If only I had known Marian’s death would lead to this. If only I could have seen into the future. If only—

I hate those two little words. And I hate him for being asleep.

I go back outside and try to cheer myself with the thought of being among my people once more. The village is quiet, hunkering down for the night. My gang, what’s left of it, will not come tonight. I’m not sure if I’m happy about this or not. I know I should be. It’s what I wanted after all, just him and me, on our own, and preferably all over each other. Instead, he is drunk and asleep, and I am tired and hungry. Some start.

I think of all the stories behind closed doors. Mothers tucking their sons and daughters in bed, singing lullabies, fathers whispering soft goodnights, young lovers amazed by each other – so many stories.

I return to the hall and look at Guy, lying on the floor, and I wonder if our own story will ever begin. I do not like to think how it will end.

Guy is softly snoring. He looks young, boyish almost, except for the shadow of beard on his chin. He doesn’t look so powerful down there, on the floor. I notice his belt is undone and smile. If I weren’t so damn tired, I might do something about that. He jerks in his sleep and his boot strikes the empty jug. I hold my breath, but he doesn’t wake up.

Disconsolately, I wander to the kitchens. I find some stale bread and a hunk of disgustingly dry meat and cram them into my mouth. I want a drink – wine, ale, anything, I don’t care. I think I might shake Guy awake after all, for denying me the drink, for denying me the fuck. If he fights me, I’ll let him. I play with the idea of us all bloodied on the floor and how we will make up.

I’m at the point of giving up when I find a dusty cask, full of ale. I’m not stupid. I won’t drink it all. Just enough to numb things a bit, take the edge off the messy ball of anger, fear and regret that roils in my gut.

The ale is bitter. It burns my throat, spits forth a memory: the barn in Étienne, soft autumn rain, a towering hay bale, me falling, crashing into Guy and a drunken conversation.

_What’s the matter, Locksley? Frightened I might jump you in the night._

Had he been making a pass at me – even then?

Another swig, another memory.

_Don’t you think the good sheriff would turn in his grave? The infamous Robin Hood and Vaisey’s master-at-arms, sleeping side by side._

I grimace, toss more ale down my throat.

The drink and thoughts of the despotic Sheriff Vaisey are enough to rid me of my damnable longings. With a final glance at Guy, I conclude that I’m not going to get my heart’s desire tonight and make my way upstairs.

~

I stand in the door-less doorway and stare at my bed. I wanted to sleep in it with Marian, but she is dead. I want to sleep in it with Guy, but I think he has given up on me. My eyes flick to the small dressing room, where I had my wicked way with Rowena. I’m half–tempted to see if his clothes are still in a heap on the floor. I imagine myself burying my head into them and assuaging my despicable want. But no – nothing less than the real thing will do tonight.

I walk to the bed, curse as I trip on something – that stupid table again. Perhaps I have drunk too much after all. I perch on the edge of the mattress, bend down, and pull off my boots. My lower back still hurts from Guy ramming me into the dining table. It seems tables and I are in competition right now and, so far, the tables are definitely winning.

Easing back onto the bed, I stare at the ceiling and wait for the oblivion of sleep. I wait and wait. I try reciting French, rattling off poetry, even counting bloody tables. It’s not going to happen. I think perhaps that I’m going about it the wrong way. Since when did I need to sleep fully clothed in my own home? Admittedly, I was always partially dressed in the camp, but that was different. We had to be ready to spring into action at any given moment. Someone attacking me in my own bed seems a remote possibility, though I suppose Guy might feel he has reason to attack me for putting the needs of my peasants above his needs.

I strip to my braies, defiantly shed them too. This is my home and I can do what I like. It’s cold and I feel stupid. I tug the heavy blanket up to my chin and wait for Guy to come up. When he doesn’t, it’s almost a relief.

 


	5. Night Moves

I know it’s him, mostly because he swears as he trips over something; probably the same bit of table I tripped over. Good. Serve him right for mucking up our first night together by getting drunk.

Unmoving, I listen to the thud, thud of his boots hitting the floor and the creak of a floorboard on the far side of the room, near the washstand, followed by another robust curse. I don’t know what’s going to happen or even what I want to happen, but whatever it is, it at least demands that I open my eyes.

Dawn. No, not dawn, but the feeble glow of the candle I lit earlier. Damn. After all that reciting and table counting, I’d finally fallen asleep only to have Guy disturb that sleep.

I blink and wake up a bit more.

My head is hurting. There’s a cramp in my right leg. I am naked. These are small things, inconsequential. What is not, though, is Guy of Gisborne moving about my bedchamber, presumably about to get into bed with me.

“I know you’re awake, Robin.”

I flex my aching leg, glad to give up the pretence.

Water sloshes as Guy dips his hands into the washbowl and smacks them to his face. I’m tempted to turn over and watch him, but change my mind. I don’t care that the earlier interruptions were not his fault, nor that I’m as much to blame as anyone for the drink – I gave it to him after all – I’m not letting him in the bed.

“There’s no creeping up on you, is there, Locksley.”

I guess by the scrapes and bumps that he’s looking for something, a towel perhaps.

“You call that creeping.”

Guy laughs, a gravelly, abandoned laugh, similar to the one he had up on the hillside, as we stood contemplating Locksley. My fingers twitch at the thought of his warm hand holding my cold one.

All right, so I am letting him in.

I listen as he peels off his leathers, catch the clink of a buckle, or at least something metallic, hitting the floor, followed by another clink, and then another. I realise it’s his weaponry. Hell, how many blades does the man wear? I can just see him now, in the shadowy corners of Nottingham’s less than desirable haunts, counting them out and then counting them in again, the obliging female picking idly at her nails and muttering under her breath. However, knowing that Guy is still armed to the teeth is a sobering moment and a stark reminder of who he was and what he is capable of.

Relinquishing my grip on the blanket, I start to turn over, silently cursing my nakedness and the fact that my weapons are downstairs.

“No,” he says. “Don’t turn over. Stay where you are.”

“Not going all shy on me, are you, Guy?”

“Just do it.”

“What, so you can stab me in the back?”

“You should be so lucky.”

There’s that warmly humorous side to him again, the one I have winkled out from the dark shell he encases himself in. I relax back onto the sheet, all thoughts of fending Guy off guiltily pushed aside.

Done with washing and undressing, he pads across to the bed. A waft of chill night air curls about my exposed skin as he lifts the heavy blanket and slips in beside me. He moves closer, but not so close that we are touching.

“Just one thing,” he says. “I don’t care who knocks on the door, even if it’s the King of bloody England. You are _not_ going to answer it.”

I know it’s childish, but I have half a mind to climb out my side of the bed. Guy plumps the pillow and shuffles. A cool foot brushes against mine. I change my mind about getting out. Not only because of the quiver of excitement I get when it finally dawns on me that Guy and me are about do unspeakable things to each other, but also because of everything else. I’ve lost Marian. I may well have lost my gang. My self-respect is in tatters. And a heart that’s still in pieces can hardly be broken. It seems to me that I have nothing left to lose.

“Robin?”

It’s just a foot, for God’s sake. How can a bloody foot arouse me? But it’s not just a foot – it’s his foot. And it’s attached to his shin, and his knee, and his thigh and – damn if I can’t stop going.

“Nothing. I’m all right.”

Guy’s weight means I inadvertently (liar) slide towards the middle of the bed. The bed he’s slept in. The bed I’ve slept in. Who’d have thought that one day we’d both be in it at the same time? Yet, here we are, a hair’s-breadth from each other.

“That’s good,” he says, “because I want you. I’ve wanted you for a long time.”

I’m tempted to say _more than that_ , as he did to me, but then he pushes his cold feet between my warm ones and the moment passes.

“Guy, I—”

“Wait.”

He places a firm hand to my middle back to stop me from rolling over and facing him. Perhaps he thinks it’ll be easier to do this if we can’t see each other’s faces, if we can pretend we’re anyone other than Robin Hood and Guy of Gisborne. If so, then I have to agree with him.

It’s strange, this other maleness, in my bed. Do I smell that way? I suppose I must – worse probably; I’ve already noticed how fastidious Guy is with his personal cleanliness and appearance. I try to remember other men I’ve laid this close to. Much, of course, on the boat. But I’d been too consumed by grief to pay more than scant notice of his body odour. And I’ve slept shoulder to shoulder with men in tents, in the Holy Land. Men who smelt of more than their own skin. Men flecked by bloody reminders of battle. Men tainted by the fear that leaked into their clothing.

Even stripped of his clothes, Guy smells of leather. I find this comforting, though I can’t think why that should be.

“I used to imagine,” he says, drawing small circles on my back with his fingertips, “touching you, being with you in this bed. That was before...well, you know, before. . .” He clears his throat, stops touching me.

“It’s all right,” I say. “You can talk about her. We can talk about her. Maybe not right now, though.”

He kisses the nape of my neck, mumbles thank you. Sliding a warm arm over my ribs, he takes hold of the hand I have resting on the sheet in front of me. He fiddles with my ring – the ring he gave me and which I’ve taken to wearing these past couple of days.

“Have you done this before?” I ask. “With a man I mean?”

I want to know where I stand with him before we do whatever we are about to do.

“Yes. A long time ago. It was...it was not...of my choosing. Not at first, anyway.”

“Oh?” No answer. I gain the distinct feeling he doesn’t want to talk about it. “And am I of your choosing?”

“Most definitely.”

He ceases fiddling with my ring and, instead, strokes my open palm with the soft pads of his fingers.

“What about you?” he asks. “Have you bedded a man before?”

“No. Never.”

“Then we’ll take it one step at a time.”

“I’m a quick learner.”

“I’m sure you are. Even so, there’s no point in mucking it up from the start. Believe me; certain things take some getting used to.”

He lets go my hand and trails his fingers down my chest.

I am going to do this. I made this choice many days ago. I will be Robin Hood by day and merely Robin by night. Infallible. I have it all worked out.

Continuing their downward quest, his fingers slip into my groin.

“Is this all right?” he asks. He buries his nose into the back of my neck.

I’ve done this myself, shamefully more times than I care to remember. And I’ve had it done to me. By small and delicate female hands – pale pink to dusky brown and back again. Beginning with those first inexperienced fumblings in the garret of Locksley’s barn, to the last time, by a blushing and surprisingly shy Marian.

“Most definitely,” I reply, echoing his earlier words.

He pushes one heavy leg in between my knees and drapes the other over my uppermost thigh. I like feeling the weight of him, pinning me to the bed. I’m hoping that soon I’ll have the whole of him on top of me, even if it is likely to hurt.

His free hand runs through my hair, strokes the back of my neck, traces down my spine. I don’t understand. I expected him to be rough, vicious. Where has the taunting, brusque, angry Guy gone? Tempered by the wine perhaps, by a few hours sleep. Or by this – by us. It’s unexpected, this tenderness, this giving.

Little John called it a sin, but the gang will not hurt me for this even if they cannot condone it. I am Robin Hood, their leader. The villagers and townsfolk, however, are another matter. They will have me for this, will shun me and drive me away from Locksley. I know I should care, but I don’t. I’m beyond caring, beyond everything but the touch of his fingers on my increasingly demanding flesh.

My choice. No choice. I can no more leave this bed now than I could ignore a plea for help.

I’m too hot under the blanket and push it away. I’m still hot. The heat is inside me – rising, intensifying. But I’m not ready to capitulate, not yet. After all the days and weeks of imagining this moment, I’m damned if it’s going to be over in a trice.

“Here.”

I wrap my ringed hand over his, take a chance. He could break my neck. I wait for the show of anger or resentment. Instead, he mumbles an apology, and I settle back against his warm chest.

“Like this?” he asks.

“Yes, exactly like that.”

I slide a hand under me and am surprised when he jerks away.

“No, just you,” he says.

“Why?”

“Because I want to hear you break.”

I don’t understand. Is this some kind of macabre revenge, because of Marian? Robin Hood at his mercy. Robin Hood giving in, spilling his lust, instead of his guts, over his long-time adversary.

“All right, but this way.”

I turn over, kiss him, and instantly regret it as his beautiful hand lets go. Reminding myself that I wanted this night to count, to mean something more than what it really is, I wrap my arms around him. We kiss again. For ages. Tasting each other. Tiny, almost hesitant kisses, where he gently bites my top lip, where my tongue edges into his mouth. And then it changes. Our kisses become deeper. Like the first time we kissed, in the forest – urgent and fierce.

I guide his hand back to where I want it most.

“All right?” he says.

It’s going to happen. I’m about to step over the cliff edge and plunge into the dark pit of immorality and the best I can hope for is that when I hit the bottom it is a fathomless pool of water I find rather than unforgiving rocks.

“Come on, Robin,” Guy urges.

I can’t believe it’s me shuddering beneath his touch. And I can no more stop myself than I can hold back the tide.

It’s going to happen and it’s going to happen here. Not lying atop the leaves and debris of the forest floor, but here, in my bed, in Locksley. _Forgiveness in the extreme._ She will never forgive me this.

“Marian.”

I thought her name would end it, that he would break away at my betrayal.

Instead, he says, “She’s here, remember.”

God, I love him for that.

“Let me hear you,” he says.

“I can’t—”

“Yes, you can.”

_Let go. Let her go. Think only of this moment._

He eases me away from him, the resultant gap between us allowing his hand to work harder, faster, sure and knowing.

Moments gather: Acre, hate, pain, a hold full of seawater, a shadowy alleyway and a heady kiss in Sherwood Forest. Moments he and I shared.

Marian, the gang, the forest – everything disappears – as circles and circles of unadulterated pleasure ripple through me. Lust gathers; rushes. I cry out, although whether in ecstasy, relief or a concession to defeat, I do not know. Perhaps all three. It has happened. There is no going back. I will never be the same again.

Patiently, Guy waits for me to still, then says, “God, you’re a hard man to please.”

Awash with gratitude, I ply him with kisses. He smiles beneath my lips. I open my eyes in time to see him swipe a hand across his stomach and lick his fingers.

“Got you.” Eyes alight with triumph, he grins at me.

I curl my fingers around his hard, erect flesh.

“Like this?” I say.

He moans. Concentrates. Moans again.

I smile. He will not last long.

“Let me hear you,” I say.

He makes a noise, halfway between a whimper and a growl.

I wriggle closer. I want to feel his warm, liquid-splash on my skin.

He groans, shudders and lets go.

“Got you back.” I grin at him, triumphant.

 


	6. Come the Dawn

Two things strike me on waking: I slept soundly having not done so for weeks. I slept with Guy of Gisborne, my former enemy, the man who killed Marian.

He is lying beside me now, asleep, his warm arm weighing upon my bare chest, his long, dark hair tickling my armpit.

I am both dismayed and elated. Dismayed because, by rights, it should be Marian lying beside me. Elated, because after weeks of wanting to lie with him, it has finally happened.

_Got you._

He certainly has.

Apart from where his warm skin touches mine, the upper half of me is chilly. Flicking my eyes downwards, I discover the heavy blanket bunched at our hips. I half wonder about pulling it over our heads, blocking out the strip of harsh winter sunlight spilling through the broken shutter, and creating a dark cave, where we can forget the men we are, where we can indulge in the sinful depravity that we have chosen for ourselves.

A clamorous chattering of sparrows in a nearby oak quickly snuffs out my unbidden twitch of lust, along with my shameless anticipation of what we might do to each other. The world is waking up and it is time for me to face the light of day, face what I have done.

Breath indrawn, I peer at Guy and consider whether I can wriggle out from under his sleep-heavy arm without waking him. Carefully, I curl my fingers around his limp wrist, curse that I should find such a nondescript part of his anatomy so ridiculously arousing.

Guy sighs, rolls onto his back and opens his eyes.

I push up onto my elbows and wait for him to surface. He blinks and turns dark, sleep-filled eyes at me. He shakes his head, blinks again. I think he is as surprised as I was to find us together in this warm bed.

“Good morning.” A self-satisfied smile plays on his lips.

I return the greeting and then clam up, unable to think what else to say.

Guy shuffles up the bed, leans against the wooden headboard and squints at the rectangle of sharp sunlight.

“We slept in,” he remarks.

Pushing the heavy blanket away, he swings his legs over the side of the bed and pads towards the window.

“Wait,” I tell him. “Leave it closed.”

Guy pauses, his hand resting on the shutter’s latch. He swivels around, gives me a questioning look. “Why do you say that? We’re at the back of the house. No one can see us up here. That is, not unless one of your gang decides to shimmy up the wall and peer in through the window. Though I guess that’s always possible. You people are not ones for using doors, are you?”

“Just leave it,” I say.

How can I explain? If he opens the shutters I will be able to see the barns and the stables and the forest beyond, and if I see them, I will remember who I am, who my peasants want me to be, and, just for a short while, I would like to forget.

Guy shrugs. “All right.”

Approaching the bed, he catches me staring. Grinning, he sits beside me and pats my thigh.

“Not quite what you’re used to waking up to, eh?”

He is annoyingly at ease. Determinedly, I make myself look. This was my choice, after all. If I cannot face it in the cold light of day, then I’d better start coming up with some damn good excuses.

Guy patiently tolerates my scrutiny, smiling all the while.

He’s all muscle, finer haired than I thought he would be, and proof, if ever proof were needed, that in my present ill-nourished state, he could easily overpower me if he wanted to.

“You need to eat more,” he says.

“I know.”

The slant of bright sunlight streaming through the broken shutter splits the bed in half. On either side of it we sit. In between us, along with the dust motes, sits our history: our families, King Richard, the war, Vaisey, all of Guy’s crimes – and mine – Marian. Big stuff, scary stuff – stuff we need to talk about. But I don’t want to talk about any of it. Instead, I want to ask him inconsequential things. Like, why does he wear black all the time? Which side of the bed did he sleep on when he lived here? Did he ever wear a full beard? Stupid questions, that won’t hurt us.

“What are you thinking?” Guy asks.

I look up and meet his eyes. They’re very blue, quite arresting, in fact, and not so far off the colour of Marian’s eyes.

“What, right now?”

“Yes.”

“I’m thinking…I’m thinking how I’m glad Marian missed this.”

“What. Us. This?” Guy indicates our joint nakedness.

I shake my head. “No. I didn’t mean that. I meant I’m glad she missed you, being with you, in this way.”

“Because?”

“Because if she hadn’t, she might never have agreed to marry me.”

Guy gives my remark some consideration and then says, “You believe she was that weak?”

I wonder if perhaps he understands – _understood_ – Marian better than either she or I thought he did.

“No. You’re right.”

“However.” He points at my lap. “I think perhaps you are.”

I make to cover my arousal with my hands, but change my mind thinking how stupid that would look considering what happened last night.  

He twists round, cups my chin and turns my head to face him. He kisses me. His head slides downwards, his nose grazing my chin and neck. He runs his tongue through my chest hairs, keeps going.

“What are you going to—”

He shushes me. Then, gently but firmly, he pushes me back onto the bed. His tongue finds me again, traces past my navel, slides wetly between my legs.

“Guy, I—”

It unravels me, the thought of him taking me in his mouth. I bury my hands in his thick hair, unsure what else to do with them.

Guy scoops his arms under my legs, forcing them apart. His breaths are warm on my thighs. He very slowly begins.

I gasp and let go of his hair, instead clutching at the bedsheet beneath me.

Guy raises his head and says, “Just lie back and think of England, Robin.”

Returning mouth, tongue and now fingers, to my groin, he begins to kiss and lick and stroke, until the pressure building beneath my ball-sack is almost unbearable. I’m lost. A heartbeat. One more. A lusty cry as I erupt in a succession of breathless shudders.

Guy does not wait for me to come down this time. He spits, laughs gruffly, and lands heavily on my rib cage. His mouth meets mine, sharing the taste of me. This is what I want, have dreamed about, the weight of him on me and the hard stab of his arousal digging into my flesh.

A thought: I will be damned for eternity. Quickly erased by another thought: does he expect me to return the favour?

Guy rolls us over. Hands planted firmly on my crown, he pushes me down, insistent, answering my question.

~

“Can I open the shutter now?”

He tosses me a piece of cloth. I deftly catch the cloth and nod without properly realising what I’m agreeing to. Wiping myself, I shiver as a cold blast of air invades the room. The sky is violet-grey. It looks as if it’s about to snow.

Guy briskly rubs his upper arms and bends down to pick up his clothes, tucking a strand of dark hair behind his ear as he does so.

He straightens up and gives me a puzzled look. “What is it?”

“Nothing.”

_She’ll never forgive me this._

“It is something, isn’t it? Regret perhaps?”

No, not regret, far from it. I think I might be happy, though I know I shouldn’t be. What I have done feels like the worse kind of betrayal. I gave her a ring, as she was dying. We spoke our vows of marriage and made promises to each other. Now I am sitting in my bed, in Locksley, naked, staring at an equally naked Guy. And I am wearing his ring.

Guy kneels by the bed and laces our fingers together. I notice I have worked the ring to the end of my finger.

“She was my wife.”

“I know,” he says.

“I still miss her.”

“I know that, too. I’m not asking you to forget her.”

I had not expected this kindness, this understanding, from him. This thing has changed us more than I thought possible. I slide the ring back into place.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

I don’t want the past spoiling our time together, although I guess it will always be there, no matter what I say or do.

As if to breathe life into the thought, Guy runs a finger over the whitened ridges of my scar, the legacy of his attack on the king dressed as a Saracen.

“I nearly killed you, didn’t I?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry.”

I don’t hate him for it any more. I can’t. I can’t even blame him. Because ever since this thing with him began, something has shifted inside me. It is a growing resentment, and it is aimed at King Richard. Were it not for his being in the Holy Land, on his glorious crusade, Guy would not have stabbed me. Were it not for his lust for war, Marian would not have died in Acre. I can’t hate Guy any more. I can’t. But King Richard... My disloyalty rests uneasily in my gut. I should not be thinking this way. He is my king. I am one of his men. I swore an oath of loyalty.

I touch the ugly scar on Guy’s lower arm, a legacy of that damning tattoo.

“I’m sorry, too,” I say.

He cocks his head at me, unsure whether I am apologising for the burn or for the fact that I failed to present the proof of his treason to those who would listen.

“You were right,” I clarify. “We should not have been in the Holy Land. The war against the Saracens was unjust and, if not that, then it was at best unwise.”

His gaze moves to the other scar running the length of my right arm, that reminder of how close to death I came during the voyage home and a reminder of his saving me.

It seems we cannot hide the marks on us – inside or out.

~

“So tell me,” I say, lacing my breeches. “Which man was it that you bedded before—”

Guy whips up his head and the look on his face tells me I have strayed into dangerous territory.

“I have no wish to talk about it,” he says.

“Fair enough. I was just curious.”

I have a niggling suspicion that the dead sheriff might be the one who was not of Guy’s choosing.

“We all have our secrets,” he says. “Despite this.” He indicates the soiled bed sheet.

“Of course.”

“Marian’s was the Night Watchman,” he says. “And I was all right with it, after the initial shock, of course. I could even admire her for it. It was the lies and the half-truths that drove me to distraction.”

“If it’s any consolation, she was the same with me.”

Guy smiles, grateful for this unexpected gift.

“How fickle is woman, eh, Robin?”

“Robin!”

“Master, are you there?”

Fists pound on the front door. Damn. The gang. I had forgotten about inviting them to Locksley.

“They are my friends,” I say, by way of apology.

“I know. I didn’t say anything.”

“Just give me a few moments with them. Please.”

“I will wait here.”

“Guy, listen I—”

He grunts and waves me away.

There are seventeen stairs leading down to the main hall, a further twelve paces to reach the outer hallway and a half-dozen more to reach the front door. But there might just as well be a thousand and still it will not give me enough time to prepare what I am going to say to them, to explain that I am never coming back to the forest and that my home is here now, with Guy.

Just be me, just be me, I inwardly chant, with every footfall.

The trouble is, I’m not sure who I am any more.

 


	7. Decisions

Just be me I tell myself as I make my way downstairs. I don’t know why I’m so fearful. They are my friends and they already know the truth about Guy and me.

As I reach the inner hallway, I can hear Much and Allan bickering. Much is complaining about not having eaten and Allan is telling him that some things are more important than food. I relax somewhat.

“Should we knock again?”

“Stop fretting will you. He’ll be here when he’s here. They might be...you know...having a lie in.”

“I’d rather not be reminded about that, thank you very much.”

I open the door.

Much almost falls into the hallway and I wonder how long he has had his ear pressed against the thick timber.

Allan grabs his shirt, steadies him. “Idiot.”

“Much,” I say.

“Robin.”

He stares, tongue-tied. I stare back, equally lost for words.

Allan pokes Much’s arm.

“Oh, right.” Much waggles his head as if to dislodge some unpleasant thought and thrusts the sack he is holding into my arms. “This is yours.”

“What?”

“You left some stuff at the camp, arrows mostly.”

I peer over Much’s shoulder. “Little John isn’t coming?”

Much shakes his head. “No.”

The word falls into me, deep and heavy with loss. Allan gives Much another poke.

“And we’re not coming either. That is to say, we’ve decided to stay at the camp, for good.”

Much isn’t looking at me when he says this. Perhaps he thinks it will make it easier for me to hear. It doesn’t.

“What do you mean?”

Allan says, “Look, not being funny, Robin. You and him living here is one thing, but the lot of us under one roof. How the hell is that going to work?”

“It would only be for the worse winter months. I thought you could use the servants’ quarters. They’ll be much warmer than the camp and we’ll keep out of your way, if that’s what you want.”

Allan rolls his eyes. “What you going to do? Draw up a rota for who gets to use the indoor privy when? Come on, Robin. Locksley Manor is big enough but it ain’t exactly Nottingham Castle. We’re bound to bump into each other. Anyway, that’s not the point. The point is...well. . .”

“The point is,” Much says, his eyes blazing with uncustomary defiance. “The point is, we agreed to come here when we thought he’d be at the castle, you know, spying on Prince John.”

“But we talked about it, Much.”

“No, we didn’t. You decided, as usual. We never got the chance to say. Well. We’re saying now. If he’s here, we’re…we’re not coming.”

“We’d be discreet.” I inwardly wince. A short while ago I was lying spread-eagled on the bed while Guy’s tongue rendered me helpless. We don’t even have a door to our bedchamber, simply a makeshift curtain.

“Is there a problem?”

A hand brushes the nape of my neck. Guy. How did I miss him creeping up on me? I’m seriously losing my touch.

Allan and Much stare, wide-eyed, as Guy’s fingers stroke up and down. I know what he’s doing. Look, he is saying. I won, in the end. I won your precious Robin Hood.

It’s an awkward moment – my lover behind me, my friends in front, and me, in the middle, torn between their needs and my own.

“And this is you two keeping out of our way, is it?” Allan says.

I shake Guy off. “At least come in and we can talk about it.”

Much gives Guy a bleak stare. “There’s nothing to talk about. We’ve said all we came to say. If you want to talk to us any more then you’ll have to come to the camp.”

“But—”

Allan starts to walk away, turns and grabs Much’s sleeve. “Come on, mate.”

I choke back my intended words of appeal and watch as Allan shouts an enthusiastic greeting to Nessa’s daughter, the lavender girl. She gives him a bemused smile.

Allan turns pointedly in my direction, as if to say ‘look what you’re missing’.

I slam the door on them.

Guy is both shirtless and bootless. No wonder they were staring. No wonder I didn’t hear him creeping up on me. I push past him and make for the hall.  

Pulling back a chair, I sit at the dining table. The spilled wine has left a deep purple stain on the tabletop. There are bits of broken vase scattered among the empty bowls and mugs.

“If you’re hoping someone’s about to bring you a meal,” Guy says, “you’re going to have a bloody long wait.”

I know he’s just trying to lighten the mood, but I’d rather he left me alone so I can think.

As if reading my thoughts, he heads upstairs. However, moments later, he returns, this time wearing a shirt. He scrapes back a chair and sits opposite me.

“You didn’t really think this whole Locksley thing through, did you?” he says.

“Pardon?”

“Us, coming here. Prince John must already know that you and your men are in Nottingham and it probably won’t be long before word gets out that you’ve returned to Locksley. What do you think he is going to do then? Simply leave you be?” Guy leans towards me, a look of pleading in his eyes. “We could go somewhere else, far from Nottingham. Start again.”

“No.” I shake my head for emphasis.

Guy purses his lips, clearly vexed and says, “How long do you think I can get away with being your guest, as you put it, before rumours start up about the two of us?”

“I’m not leaving Locksley. This is my home and these are my people and no one will believe that you and I...I hardly believe it myself.”

Guy lays a hand on top of my ringed one as if that might make his words sink in better. “We are an easy target, living here. What are we going to do if Prince John sends his knights to Locksley? Hide?”

“We don’t know that John is definitely in the castle. No one has seen him recently.”

“That’s because the castle is in lockdown. Prince John might be waiting for reinforcements to bolster his position. Also, what about the new sheriff, this Murdac fellow? I thought that Rowena girl said he was a nasty piece of work.”

“That’s one person’s opinion. He might be a decent man for all we know. Besides, Matilda said he was laid up with a serious illness, so I doubt he’ll be giving us much trouble in the foreseeable future, if ever.”

Guy gives me a doubtful look. “Even so, I think it might be wise to find out what is going on. Your original plan was to send me into the castle as a spy and, much as I can’t believe I’m saying this, I think that’s what I should do. I do not like having to look over my shoulder at every turn. If we can find out what Prince John and this new sheriff are up to then—”

“No,” I cut across him. “It’s too risky. John might get wind about you being in Locksley, living here with me. It’s too dangerous.”

“Then what do you suggest?”

“We wait. I will ask Allan to snoop some more, see if he can find out what’s going on.”

Guy is right, of course. The two of us living here is risky for all sorts of reasons. However, living in the camp is out of the question, even if Much and Allan were to agree to it, and I refuse to leave my home and my people. Despite this thing with Guy, I am still Robin Hood; I can still do some good here.

Decision made, I push back my chair and stride towards the door.

“Where are you going?” Guy asks.

“To the camp. To speak to Allan.”

“But it’s snowing.”

I look out the window. I had been right earlier about the violet-grey sky portending snowfall.

“We have a snow shovel,” I say in a feeble attempt at wit. “You could always dig a few handy paths around the house to keep yourself amused.”

“I would rather amuse myself with you.”

“Later,” I tell him.

I gather up my weapons and don a thick cloak. As I open the front door, a frenzy of tumbling white swirls into the hallway. Guy has followed me to the door. He wraps his arms around himself, clearly cold in nothing but a thin shirt.

“Be careful,” he says.

“It’s just snow,” I tell him.

“You know I didn’t mean that.”

His care for me is sincere. I can see the worry in his eyes. I am his world now, just as Marian was once his world. He is terrified at the thought of again losing the object of his affections. It’s disconcerting and I know the right response would be to assure him that all will be well, but I’ve given that assurance to people in the past and been proved wrong.

“Go put some more clothes on,” I tell him. “You’ll catch your death.”

Head down, I step into the swirling whiteness.

 


	8. Home Truths

The forest is quiet, muffled. The only sound is the creak of snow under my boots and its soft patter on the trees’ bare branches.

I reach a clearing and decide to try to dispel some of my worry about living in Locksley and the gang’s dislike of me by loosing arrows at the delicate ridges of snow on the branches of a distant oak. When I was a boy, and there was snow, this was one of my favourite games.

However, the once familiar action doesn’t soothe me. If anything, it makes me feel worse. Because when the arrow hits, the resulting powdery spray reminds me of the time I had persuaded my father to come watch my prowess with a bow. I had been overjoyed when a craftily constructed mound of snow had thumped on his head. My father had laughed, long and loudly. Then he’d scooped up some snow and chucked it at me and an exhilarating snowball fight had ensued.

He wouldn’t be laughing now; not at the man I have become, talent or no talent. If he were still alive, and knew what I was doing back in the manor house and village he’d once lorded over, he’d like as not pick up his own trusty bow and see that I ended up buried under the snow – for good.

I retrieve my spent arrows and continue on my way.

The track I am following takes me past The Kissing Tree, under which I chose to bury Marian’s ring and my broken heart. I stop at the tree and stare at our names – Robin and Marian – carved on its trunk. I did that, with a stolen knife.

I feel as if I should make a gesture of some kind. I’m not sure what. A few words. A few tears. Something. In the end, I simply trace my gloved hand over her name and walk away.

~

Much and Allan are sitting in front of a blazing fire. They are eating. Little John is not with them.

I nod in silent greeting and make my way over to the fire. Much wordlessly hands me a bowl of soup. I hang my head over it for a moment enjoying the feel of the warm steam on my frozen face and the meaty aroma wafting up my nostrils. I haven’t eaten anything since the stale bread and dried meat I stuffed into my mouth last night.

Allan mumbles something about needing more firewood and hastily departs. Much gets up as though to follow and I tell him to sit down, that I want to talk to him.

He visibly squirms and it occurs to me that’s he’s frightened about being alone with me. I have no idea why. Surely he doesn’t think I’m about to proposition him. I quickly dismiss the notion. Mostly likely, he is simply finding the idea of me talking about my relationship with Guy too discomforting.

“This is awkward,” he says breathing life into my thought.

“Much?”

“This is more than awkward.”

He stares into his bowl, unwilling or unable to look at me.

“Just say it,” I tell him.

“I thought you liked girls. I thought—”

“We’ve talked about this before,” I interrupt.

“Yes, I know, but I don’t get it. I mean. What is it, Robin? Is it just him or do you fancy…I don’t know…Allan?”

“No. I don’t fancy Allan.”

Much looks up from his food, his eyes widening.

“You…you…don’t want me like that, do you? I mean…that would be too…I mean. I’m always saying how I love you, and I do love you, Robin. But not…I didn’t mean—”

“No, Much.” I can’t help smiling at my friend. “I don’t want you like that. For starters, you snore too much.”

“I do not...oh, very funny.”

His relief at my answer is palpable.

“So, it’s just him,” he says, “which, quite frankly, makes no sense at all.”

“I know. And I’m sorry.”

My stomach rumbles and I start eating. “This is good,” I tell him.

“I bet Guy can’t cook,” Much says spitefully.

I bite back an equally venomous retort and finish my soup.

“Thank you.” I hand Much my empty bowl. I wonder about asking him for some soup to take back to Locksley but decide against it.

“Are you coming back to the forest?” he blurts.

“No.”

“Master. You know Prince John will soon learn you are in Locksley and send men. He’s not going to forget about us, not after what you…I mean…what we did to his guards.”

“I know.”

“Then why did you suggest we all stay in Locksley?”

“I don’t know.”

“You knew we wouldn’t come.”

It is not a question.

“I wasn’t sure. I thought it would be fine. I thought if it was all right—”

“And is it?”

“Yes.”

I watch Much’s face fall as the word sinks in.

“Oh.”

“I don’t understand,” I say. You all seemed all right with it a couple of days ago.”

“That’s because it was such a shock, and because we thought once you got to Locksley you’d realise you’d made a mistake and—”

“It’s not a mistake, Much. Well, what I mean is, it probably is a mistake, but it’s what I want. If it’s any consolation, I miss you, all of you.”

“But not enough to give him up?”

“No.”

“Then I don’t know what to say.”

“Say you’re still my friend.”

“I don’t know.” Much chews his bottom lip and frowns as if trying to fathom a particularly complicated puzzle. “All the things we’ve been through – you and me. Don’t they count for anything?”

“Of course they do. They count for everything. I wish I could explain it better, but I can’t.”

“Can’t or don’t want to?”

“Both.”

Much chases the last piece of meat around his bowl and then says, “Does he care about you? I mean really care?”

“I think so. It’s early days yet.”

Much pops the piece of meat into his mouth and chews, slowly, all the while staring at my ringed hand.

“So…er…was that the first time?” he asks. He stares into his empty bowl, clearly embarrassed by his burning curiosity.

“The first time, what?”

“You know…with a…with a man?”

“Yes.”

“But not the last, I take it?”

“No.”

“Right, right...I’ll just, er...do you want any more, to eat, I mean?”

“Much?”

“Yes?”

“Did you guess? Before we walked into the camp and I told you all?”

“Not really. I knew something was bothering you. I thought it was Marian. But then Rowena—”

“Then Rowena what?”

“Nothing.”

“Tell me.”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t really paying attention. I…I think she was just talking to herself, you know, trying to work something out.”

_You belong to someone else. I can’t compete with a ghost, Robin._

Perhaps I had said Guy’s name in my sleep after all and Rowena had just been sparing me.

“I think she likes me.” Much looks glad to change the subject. “We talked a lot while we were out hunting for supper. Well, I suppose I talked mostly, but she laughed and I don’t think she was laughing at me. Well, I suppose she could have been but still. . .”

“I’m sure she does like you,” I say. “You’re a very likeable person. Annoying at times.” I smile at him. “But likeable.”

“She said I was. . .”

“What?”

“Uncomplicated. That doesn’t sound like much of a compliment, does it?”

“Oh, believe me. It is.”

“Of course,” he says. “Eve is the only girl for me and when things are right in Nottingham then I’m going to go find her. But it’s a nice feeling, isn’t it, knowing someone likes you.”

“Yes,” I say. “It’s a nice feeling.”

An uneasy silence follows, during which we watch the snow piling into our empty soup bowls.

I pick up my bow. “I ought to go.”

Much looks skywards. “But it’s still snowing.”

“Yes. I had noticed that.”

“You could stay. Your bed is still here. Well, of course it is. And maybe John will come back and we could…you know...talk and eat and—”

“No, Much. I’m going home.”

“Please, Master.”

His light blue eyes fill with tears, but they are not enough to stop me from leaving.

“Say goodbye to Allan for me. Oh, and, Much?”

“Yes?”

“Tell John. . .”

“What?”

“Tell him we still have a job to do. Tell him I haven’t forgotten about the poor and nor do I intend to.”

“If you stayed here and he comes back, you could tell him yourself.”

“I’ll come again soon,” I say by way of reply.

I walk away, staring unblinkingly at the falling snow if only to pretend that this doesn’t hurt as much as it really does.

~

My trudge back to Locksley is a cold and lonely one, made worse by the coming darkness and my even darker thoughts. It is only as I reach the comforting sight of the manor house that I begin to feel my despondency lifting.

I stamp my boots in the inner hallway and take off my cloak and weapons. I notice Guy’s broadsword is still leaning next to the snow shovel and I place my bow and quiver beside it.

Opening the hall door, I half-expect to find him stretched out on the floor, drunk and asleep, like last evening or, worse still, in a foul temper at my lengthy absence and gearing up to chuck something at me.

I flick my eyes around the hall. No Guy.

There is, however, a roaring fire in the grate, a table laden with breads, meats and cheeses and two silver goblets filled with wine.

“You’re back.”

Guy makes his way down the stairs. He is not wearing his leathers but, instead, some clothes I don’t recognise. It’s possible they belonged to my father or are some old clothes of mine, left in the house before I went on crusade and long since forgotten.

“Shall we eat?” he says, indicating the table.

“I ate at the camp. Sorry.”  

He scowls and I realise I have said the wrong thing.

“But it was only soup,” I quickly add, “so I can easily eat some more. You did say I should fatten up, after all.” I seat myself at the table and look him up and down. “By the way, you needn’t have changed for dinner.”

A flash of anger darkens his expression and I think I’ve probably said the wrong thing again.

I hurriedly wipe the grin off my face, but needn’t have worried. Guy is beginning to understand my sense of humour and the anger is gone as quickly as it arrived, replaced by gentle laughter.

“I thought perhaps I should change my clothing, that my leathers would remind you of times you’d rather forget. These clothes are only temporary, until I can purchase some that fit better.”

I notice that the breeches are straining around his upper thighs.

“Actually,” I say, “I think I prefer you in your leathers. I suppose because they’re what I’m used to seeing you in.”

That’s not what I am thinking, however. What I am thinking is that I feel that I need a visible reminder of the darkness in him not only for my own safety but also for that of my peasants. I won’t say this aloud, though.

“That’s good,” he says. “Because these breeches are cutting me in half.”

A twitch of desire spikes my groin and I put down the hunk of bread I’m holding. My face must give me away because he smirks and says, “I’d quite like to get out of them as soon as possible.”

My own breeches are suddenly also too tight. I all but leap out of my chair.

~

Naked, we stand in front of the fire, the food and wine forgotten. Outside, the world is white and still, but in here, we are blood red and fluid.

I cannot kiss him enough. I cannot touch him enough. I know I am trying to bury my disappointment over the gang’s refusal to accept us. My kisses are ferocious. Guy submits to them willingly and doesn’t ask why.

“Here.” I break away, breathless. Tugging on Guy’s shoulders, I urge him towards the worn hearthrug.

Kneeling, we continue to kiss, hands running over fired-warmed flesh, tongues searching and insistent. I think of Allan and Much, huddling by the campfire, and Little John, living God knows where, despising me.

“Turn over,” I say more gruffly than I mean to.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“Robin, we haven’t—”

“Turn over.”

A couple of heartbeats go by and I think he is about to refuse. Something akin to fear flickers in his dark blue eyes. Then it is gone and he turns and faces the rug.

“Do you know what you’re doing?” he asks.

“I’ve got a pretty good idea.”

 ~

I can’t remember the Arabic now, but roughly translated it meant Sinners’ Alley. There were quite a few of these shadowy little haunts in the Holy Land, especially after we arrived. Bold, righteous crusaders. With God on our side and bloodlust in our hearts. Ready to fight, and to fornicate.

I only visited it a handful of times and then always the same girl. I guess I thought this made it more moral, somehow. But there were plenty of them down there, plying their trade, alongside the men, plying theirs.

We rarely spoke, even though I had mastered a good deal of the language by then. We just got on with it. She helped rid me of my shameful ache in response to many a drunken conversation I would rather not have heard, let alone acted on.

One night, after a particularly bawdy tale of a male threesome and all it entailed, I found myself once again at her door. This time horrendously drunk, after having lingered too long, wanting to hear the outcome of those men’s debauchery and using the excuse of simply wanting the drink and the company and no more than that to hang around and listen. Eventually, when both my supposed morals and my breeches could no longer take the strain, I staggered to her small room where she ministered to me.

There were more meetings after that and always I turned up the worse for drink, because I stayed too long. The knights teased me, said I would turn into a drunkard. I let them think I craved the drink. I kept my hands on the table and my lap well hidden. Then I went to her house. It meant nothing, I told myself; their filthy talk. It could have been about women and I’d have reacted in the same way. We’d all been away from home for too long and I missed Marian, had yet to taste her sweet flesh.

Now, I wonder, looking at Guy’s smooth, fire-glazed skin, if I had been lying to myself even as long ago as that, just as I had lied to myself about so many other things these past few months.

I lean down and brush his long hair away from his ear. “Trust me,” I whisper.

“Fine,” he says. “But not the one with the ring, all right.”

~

It takes a while; I’m not used to being inept at something. But Guy keeps up a gentle flow of encouragement, in between his anticipatory growls and moans, and I feel a measure of smugness at keeping myself in check and not ending up like some inexperienced lad on his first plunge into the untested and unknown.

In the end, it all comes down to trust, a jar of grease swiped from our horseless stables and the dredging up of those detestable and, at the time, unfathomable yearnings in Acre.

The fire crackles and spits. The candles stutter as wisps of winter wind force their way through the shutters’ cracks. Guy’s bunches the edge of the hearthrug in his left hand, his other hand buried beneath him.

Then I remember – he has done this before. He told me last night when he slipped into bed with me. I am stupidly, irrationally jealous. Without warning, I slam into him.

He cries out and I wonder if I have hurt him, but it is too late to stop and ask. Helpless, I break, and as I come all my insecurities, shame and guilt fall away. It’s just him and me and this heady moment of release. To hell with the gang. I can take on the world single-handed. Because, right now, the only side I’m on is my own.

I slide a hand under him.

“God, Robin.”

He tenses, a coiled spring.

_There is no God or Heaven waiting for us_ , I think. I ease away and watch as my spilled lust trickles down his muscled thighs. Guy gasps, jerks and joins me in anointing the hearthrug. _No Marian either._ And, for the first time, it doesn’t feel so bad.

 


	9. Past and Present

I’m sure there is something we should say or do, in between peeling ourselves off the hearthrug and waking up tomorrow morning. I have no idea what. Nothing, other than those long-buried snatches of drunken conversation in Acre, has prepared me for this.

Guy is quiet, face turned away from me, presumably content just to lie. Possibly asleep. Lust sated.

Time to think then. Time to face up to a few things. Starting with how I ended up ramming something into Guy other than the sharp end of my dagger.

Forget Marian. Forget pirates and sinking boats. This thing started longer ago than that. Long before Guy found me, alone and despairing, in an alleyway in France, where he placed a hand on my shoulder in tentative friendship and all I could feel was unholy desire. It had started in the Holy Land, in Acre, surrounded by carousing knights and overflowing goblets. And it had had nothing to do with loneliness or being far from home and everything to do with desire. I’d desired this.

_Admit it_.

I hug closer to Guy, until my nose is pressing into the back of his neck. I smell a whisper of leather and warm skin and hair that could do with a wash. I smell Guy of Gisborne and it doesn’t frighten me, not any more.

His long hair is tickling my face and I bunch the dark locks in my hand and drape them over his shoulder. Guy sleeps on and I think some more.

It wouldn’t have happened with anyone in the gang, couldn’t have. We were friends. But what about Guy? Had there ever been a time, despite the bad blood between us, where I’d looked at him and wondered what it would be like, to be this close to him? Think fights. Think of the times I had him, my knife or sword at his throat. Why hadn’t I killed him? I’d had every right, every reason. Forget the non-killing doctrine I imposed on the gang; Sheriff Vaisey and Guy of Gisborne should have been the exception. And the gang would have forgiven me. Especially after that time in the cave, when I thought Marian was dead. So, what had stopped me from killing him?

Think back. Think clashing swords, the dull thud of a well-aimed fist, arms and legs fighting for dominance. Think of the two of us, slugging it out. I remember the easy insults and accusations that flew off my tongue, concealing the fact that his touch aroused me, even though that touch was with the intent to bloody and defeat. I convinced myself the thrill of the fight had made me hard. But it wasn’t the fight. It was him.

_Admit it_.

Guy sighs but doesn’t wake up. I wish he would. I don’t like having time to think. Thinking means memories and memories lead to guilt and, right now, I know I should be feeling as guilty as hell. I’d lusted after Guy even though I intended to propose to Marian when the time was right. I’m not saying I didn’t love her. I did. Everything I felt for her was real and true. But everything I felt about him was also real and true. I know that now.

I twist my head around and look at the fire: glowing embers. No wonder I’m starting to feel chilly.

“Guy?”

No response. I give him a gentle nudge. He groans and jerks his head up.

“What . . . what is it?”

“You fell asleep.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

He pushes up onto his knees, scrapes his hair from his face and turns to look at me, bleary-eyed.

I wanted him to wake up. Now, I’m sorry he has. It means we will have to talk. I’m not good at talking. Much can attest to that.

Perhaps I should just kiss him, start things all over again. At least it will save the need for conversation. And he does look highly kissable right now, with his messy hair and sleep-innocent eyes. I resist. Not only is it getting damn cold, but I know we will only end up back at this point and there’s only so long we can lie in front of a rapidly dwindling fire without our clothes on.

“Sorry,” I say.

“What for?”

“I thought maybe I hurt you.”

He glances down at the rug, at the unmistakeable evidence of our depraved coupling.

“No. You took me by surprise, that’s all.”

Guy plants his backside on the rug. Hugging his knees to his chest, he stares at the final speck of red nestling amid the ashy remains of the fire.

“So, I can . . . I mean, we can do it again sometime?” I say.

“Absolutely.”

I flick my eyes at the jar of grease sitting by the hearth. I can tell Guy is also looking at it, even if he is pretending not to.

“Fire’s nearly out,” I say.

“So I see.”

“Perhaps we should go upstairs, to bed. Properly to bed, I mean, as in sleep?”

“That sounds like a plan.”

“Not really. I’m through with plans.”

Guy gives me a disbelieving look. “Are you sure that’s wise. It might prove to be your undoing.”

“I’m already undone, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

I stand and, for the first time, notice the disarray of clothes strewn between the table and the hearth.

“Where did you find those clothes you were wearing earlier?” I ask.

I bend down and pick up a faded green tunic and a wide leather belt. I recognise the belt. My father gave me ten lashes with it for my ten summers because I disobeyed him and messed about in Locksley pond, taking part in a swimming race with Guy.

“In that little room, near our bed.”

_Our bed._

It used to be my bed. Then it was his. For a short while, it was Rowena’s bed. Long-limbed, doe-eyed Rowena. The girl who dressed in men’s clothing and could handle a bow almost as well as me. I think of our quick and clumsy lovemaking on top of his leathers. A salve for my hurt, that’s what she’d said. At the time, it had seemed reason enough, and she wasn’t exactly backward in coming forward. It was a reprehensible thing to do though, considering what I’d been thinking of while it was going on. Not that it mattered, in the end. If anything, we did each other a favour. She stopped idolising me and I finally realised what I really wanted.

“What?” Guy asks.

“Nothing. Stick to black. It’s more you.”

“Fair enough.”

Guy makes for the stairs, leaving me to pick up the clothes. I hope he doesn’t think I’m always going to pick up after him. Then I look at the table, at the bread, cheese and meats, and the goblets of wine. I’m not sure how or where he got them from, and I’ve already decided not to ask, but it was a thoughtful gesture.

It seems a shame to waste good food and even though I wasn’t that hungry before the sex, I am now.

After putting on my shirt to keep warm, I sit at the table and survey the fine spread. There’s a round cheese, pale and creamy; bread, whiter than I’ve seen in a long time; slices of pork; a large bowl of apples and a jug of red wine, along with the two filled goblets.

My hand hovers over the various offerings, undecided. I swoop on some meat and vaguely wonder if I should take Guy up a plate.

The slice of pork is halfway to my mouth, when I have a painful thought. Of Much and Allan, sitting in the cold and snow, eating soup. Soup that Much had probably gone to great lengths to make. I can just see him now, bumbling about in the snow, griping about the lack of prey and how cold his hands and feet are, finally finding some small animal, a rabbit or a squirrel, skewering it with an arrow and cursing the fact that my fine aim isn’t there to help him. And, eventually, after all that huffing and puffing, getting an earbashing from Allan for producing nothing more than a measly bowl of soup.

I lay down the slice of pork, no longer hungry.

~

Guy is already in bed. He has lit a candle for me to see by. I notice he’s wedged an item of clothing into the broken shutter to block out the winter wind.

I dump our clothes in the far corner of the room and approach the bed. Guy flips back the blanket. I’m still thinking about the gang, out in that cold, snowy forest. And Little John. Where could he be? The cave? Another village? Far from Nottingham?

No. I mustn’t think about the gang or the cave or Little John. Not if I want to get into this bed with Guy.

Yawning, I slump onto the bed and tug the thick blanket up to my chin, wishing I’d thought to light a fire in the room.

“Tired?” Guy asks.

“It’s been a long day,” I tell him. “You try slogging through heavy snow all the way to the camp and back.”

“No thanks. I’ll stick to these four walls if you don’t mind.”

“You never know, you might have enjoyed yourself. We could have built a snowman.”

“Child.”

I can hear the smile in his voice. It pleases me to think that we can talk so easily when we are lying in a bed together.

“Have you ever wondered,” he says, “what we would say or do if Prince John’s guards were to burst in on us?”

“No.”

Guy slips his cold feet into between my warm ones. “Don’t you think we ought to?”

“I think we’d have more to worry about than our reputations,” I say, “particularly if we were being attacked. Besides, we could always say it was an innocent mistake. You know. You thought it was your house. I thought it was mine. We both got into bed at the same time. That sort of thing.”

“I’m being serious.”

“So am I.”

“No, you’re not. You’re being infuriating. Don’t you ever take anything seriously?”

For a couple of heartbeats, there is a ghost in the room, tugging at my chest.

“Robin, what’s the matter? Did I—”

“Nothing. Sorry. I do have a plan. Well, half a plan.”

“I thought you’d given up on plans.”

Unable to think of a suitable retort, I lean over to blow out the candle. I smile. I’d wondered where that little jar had gone.

“I’m going to talk to them again,” I say.

“What do you mean?”

“The gang. I’m going to go back to the forest tomorrow. I can’t leave things the way they are.”

“Why not?”

“Because they need me.”

“No they don’t. This is just you being the big _I am_.”

“No it’s not. This is about doing the right thing.”

“Ha!”

“What?”

“You. If only you could hear yourself talk.”

“Guy, I promised the king, before we left the Holy Land, that I would do all I could to stop his brother from stealing Richard’s crown. I promised Marian I’d keep fighting. I’m not stupid. I know I can’t do it on my own. And by that, I mean I need the gang. And you. You can guarantee that the man Prince John has appointed sheriff will likely be a nasty piece of work.”

“You told me that he could well be a decent fellow. You also told me that he’s at death’s door. You’re twisting the facts to suit yourself.”

“That’s just it: we don’t know the facts. That’s why I need the gang on my side. Allan skedaddled when I went to the camp earlier. If anyone can find out what’s going on in Nottingham, he can.”

“Well,” Guy says, fidgeting to get comfortable. “If Blight’s leeches suck the lifeblood out of the new sheriff, you could always put yourself up for the position.”

“Now who’s not taking things seriously,” I say.

“Sick or well,” he says, “this Murdac can’t possibly be any worse than Vaisey. That man was a fucking bastard.”

His hand clenches and unclenches against my hipbone.

“I agree he was the worst kind of evil,” I say. “But Vaisey was your benefactor for a long time and, as far as I know, you were always loyal to him. At least until the boat. To be honest, I’m surprised you had it in you to kill him.”

“He used, deceived, belittled and openly ridiculed me. I didn’t always see it at the time, but he did. Marian tried to tell me. She—”

I put a finger to his lips. “Please. Let’s not talk about Vaisey or Marian. Not tonight.”

I know he has things he would like to say, to tell me, and I feel bad about quietening him, but I’m tired of ghosts.

Guy pointedly offers me his back. I guess this is his way of telling me he is annoyed with me.

I wait a few heartbeats and then tentatively push a leg between his thighs. He stiffens, but doesn’t push me away.  Emboldened, I wrap an arm around him. He relaxes into me and I realise I am forgiven.

As I fit myself against the contours of his back and buttocks, I think of the fire and the hearthrug and the little pot of grease sitting on the bedside table.

Guy snorts. “I felt that, Hood.”

He must be tired. He’s even forgotten my name.

“Later,” I tell him.

“Later,” he repeats in a drowsy mumble.

As Guy falls asleep, he begins to gently snore. The sound doesn’t irk me. Much’s snores are much noisier and I’ve lived with him for years and so have grown used to a less than silent night’s sleep.

Comforted by the familiar sound, I close my eyes, praying that the ghosts leave me alone tonight.


	10. The Box Affair

I awake, not to the later of our mumbled promises, but to the anguished jerks and kicks of a nightmare. Not mine. His.

Although I can no longer see the sky through the blocked shutter, from what light there is in the room, I guess it is well past dawn.

Guy is tossing and turning, still asleep. His head is switching from side to side and, every now and then, an arm or a leg smacks against my own.

Much told me I did similar things, whenever I had bad dreams. That, sometimes, I flailed about, as if trying to beat off an assailant. Other times, I spoke aloud or shouted, mostly in English but, occasionally, in Arabic, although if I asked Much to repeat what I’d said, he always told me that he couldn’t remember or that he couldn’t pronounce the word.

I didn’t need to tell Much what the nightmares were about. He knew. He had been there, fighting alongside me. He had seen the blood and the death, in all its crimson glory. And he had been there on that fateful day. That day when, despite my best efforts, which included coming close to exchanging blows with Richard, we turned our backs on God.

“The infidel must die,” the king declared. “This is war”.

I did my duty, as did Much, but we took no delight in aiding in the slaughter of 2,700 members of the Acre garrison outside the city walls. My faith in the king’s so-called glorious crusade, as well as my faith in my God, was severely shaken that day and I wished for nothing more than to return home to my beloved England and to Marian. But I stayed. Out of duty. Out of loyalty to King Richard. And I continued to fulfil my duties.

I glance at Guy, at the tiny blisters of sweat gathering on his brow, and think perhaps my downward slide into sodomy is not the reason I shall end up in Hell, that perhaps eternal damnation has been my destination all along.

These past few months, Marian’s death and then my confusion and torment over my sordid want of Guy have overshadowed the horrors of the years I served King Richard in the Holy Land. Sometimes, however, all three tangle together and I have frightening dreams of thrusting a sword into a white-robed Marian, while a Saracen stands behind me, arm raised, poised to plunge a dagger into my back, and Guy is shouting at me to run and keep on running, even as Vaisey is squeezing the lifeblood out of him.

Yes, I know a thing or two about nightmares.

I seek out Guy’s hand under the heavy blanket. He continues to thrash, unaware of my touch.

“Guy.”

I sit and brush the sweat-soaked hair away from his face.

“No.” Guy tugs his hand from mine. “Don’t. Marian. No!”

His eyes snap open and meet my own. She is there. My Marian. Our Marian. Drowned in their glittering blue depths.

“Robin?”

“Yes.”

Dazedly, Guy peels himself away from the rumpled bedsheet. “What—” He shakes his head and grabs hold of my arm, as if to prove I am real.

“It was a dream,” I tell him. “Just a bad dream.”

His fear rapidly fades, replaced by relief. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“No, but I’d be grateful if you would stop clutching my bad arm.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

Guy lets go of my bare arm. There are marks, little crescent-moons, where his fingernails have dug in. There is also my ravaged tattoo, that lasting legacy of the pirate’s sword that would have taken my life but for Guy tackling me to the boat’s deck.

“Wait here,” I tell him.

I pad over to the window and pull what I now find to be a pair of worn breeches away from the broken shutter. The sky is slate grey and it is snowing again.

Shivering, I return to the bed and sit next to Guy.

“Are you all right?” I ask.

His face is buried in his hands, curtained by his long hair.

“Sometimes,” he says, “I wish I didn’t have to go to sleep. Other times, I wish I would never wake up.” He scrubs his face with his hands and turns to me. “Of course, it’s better now. Now that I wake up and see you.”

He smiles, awkwardly, embarrassed by his affectionate admittance.

“You’re not really seeing me at my best, in the morning.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Guy lifts the blanket from our legs. “From where I’m sitting, I think I can see some of your best bits.” Leaning across me, he swipes up the little jar of grease. “Now, I believe it’s my turn.”

“Are you sure?” I ask. I’m surprised by how quickly he is able to push his nightmare aside. After some of my worst nightmares, I can easily spend a whole day still haunted by them, feeling detached from what is going on in the real world.

“I’m sure,” he says.

He removes the jar’s lid. I watch as he pushes the glutinous contents around with his middle finger and feel a familiar low ache of want.

Guy looks up. His eyes meet mine but only for a heartbeat or so; long enough, that I see the lingering torment of his nightmare. I almost tell him to forget it but something about his determination to do this makes me think that perhaps this is his way of suppressing his night horrors.

“Turn over,” he says.

I do as he asks, sprawling on top of the damp sheet.

“Do you remember,” Guy says, straddling my legs, “the barn, in Étienne?”

“I remember.”

“It was raining,” he says.

“And we were drunk.”

Guy grazes a finger down my spine. “Not so drunk that I couldn’t see straight.”

“What do you mean by that?”

He slips a greased finger inside me.

“Don’t tense,” he says. “It’ll make things easier.”

I realise my hands are scrunching the bedsheet and that I am holding my breath. I breathe out and try to relax.

“I wasn’t so drunk,” he continues, “that I didn’t notice you lying face down in the straw, with your boots off. I wasn’t so drunk, that I didn’t wonder what it would be like, to fuck you.”

He inserts a second finger. There is discomfort, accompanied by a pleasing twitch of lust.

“That was when,” he says, “I realised how much I wanted you.” He shuffles backwards, easing the pressure from my thighs. “Get up onto all fours.”

“What?”

“It’ll be easier.”

“For you or for me?”

“Just do it.”

_Please, forgive me, Marian. And if you’re watching, for God’s sake, shut your eyes._

I push up onto my elbows and knees.

“Robin, please relax. You’re as rigid as a board.”

“I’m trying to, but—”

“You know,” Guy interrupts, his fingers sliding away, “I was so damn hard just watching you, lying there, with bits of straw in your hair and those begging-to-be-untied laces that I nearly came there and then. That was when I knew I had to leave, knew I had to get away from you.”

His cock takes the place of his fingers. Almost immediately, the discomfort lessens, replaced by an aching need that increases with every push and pull.

“I was watching you, Robin, at that archery contest. Watching you burying those arrows into the target board. God, I was so hard it hurt. I knew you’d win. Didn’t think that pompous French lump of lard would go after you, though. Afterwards, when I found you in that alleyway, I knew. When you looked at me, I knew. And so did you.”

He stills, says, “Robin?”

“Mmm?”

“You’re not saying much.”

“I’m concentrating.”

“What?”

“For God’s sake, Guy. Since when did you become so damn talkative?”

With a soft rumble of laughter, he slides a hand underneath me. “Here. Let me help you. Better?”

“Yes.”

I look at my fingers, splayed upon the cold, sweat-stained sheet and at the bulky silver ring that should not be there, but is. I think of Marian’s sweet little ring, buried in the frozen earth, and it feels as if a shard of ice is piercing my heart.

“Guy?”

“What?”

“Keep talking.”

“What?”

“Talk to me, while you—”

“I thought you just told me to shut up.”

“Please.”

He leans down and whispers in my ear. “Do you want me to talk dirty?”

“You can recite the Paternoster for all I care.”

He thrusts again, harder, so I almost lose my balance.

“There’s so much I don’t know about you, isn’t there, Locksley.”

“You said that before, in the barn. And it’s Robin, by the way.”

“I’m right though, aren’t I? _Robin_.”

I open my eyes and glance beneath me. For a heartbeat, I entertain the notion of knocking his hand away and leaping from the bed. Not because I’m not enjoying it – I am. But because my head is telling me this is wrong, that I shouldn’t be here. I don’t. Because I want that moment of sweet release. I want the nightmares to go away.

Guy hisses and a warm wetness fills me. He half-slumps onto my back.

For a short while, there is only the sound of our breaths: his, soft and slow, mine, fast and furious.

Guy’s long hair falls against the side of my face. He whispers, “The Paternoster? I don’t think prayer’s going to save you now, Robin Hood.” He takes hold of me.

I shudder. For a dizzying moment the world stops. Then it starts again. I break and watch as my spent lust pools with his.

I’m sure I should be crying. Or dead. Instead, I’m grinning like an idiot.

Collapsing onto the soiled sheet, I say, “If I’d known things would be like this between us, I’d have taken up with you years ago.”

Guy falls on top of me. He’s heavy and warm and I can’t believe how much I need him.

“It certainly would have saved all that bother of us going after one another all this time, not to mention that scruffy gang of yours,” he says.

The gang. My friends. Out in the cold and the snow. Waiting for me to come to my senses. I should have known the happy moment couldn’t last.

~

Guy laughs as I stumble, trying to pull on my breeches.

“It wasn’t that bad, was it?” he says.

“Not at all,” I say. There is a lingering heat in my buttocks and I have this ridiculous fear that I might walk differently.

“What?” he asks.

“Nothing.”

“Good. Because when you get back from the forest, there’ll be a fire waiting downstairs.”

His promise is enough to make me want to forget the whole gang, forest thing and simply stay here. We could eat the food from last night. We could drink wine and take turns throwing logs on the fire, in between the sex. And most of all we could talk, properly talk. And perhaps I’ll uncover the Guy of Gisborne no one else got to know.

I finish dressing. Then, after strapping on my weapons and slinging my thick cloak about my shoulders, I open the front door.

“I won’t be long,” I tell him. I step outside. The snow is halfway up my boots.

“Looking at that,” Guy says, “you’ll be lucky to make it to the top of the hill.”

“Just don’t start without me,” I say. I turn around and give him a broad wink.

Guy bends as if to scoop up a handful of snow to throw at me. I think of the snowball fight I had with my father and tears spring into my eyes. Turning my back on him, I hurry away.

“Spoilsport,” Guy shouts.

~

Much is cooking. I’m beginning to think he’s doing it just for the sake of something to do and not because anyone is hungry. After all, there’s only him and Allan. John is still absent.

He wordlessly offers me a bowl of steaming soup. It’s the same soup as yesterday. I think of the food that Guy laid out for us, back at Locksley, and have a momentary stab of guilt.

This time, Allan eats with us.

Apart from discussing the depth of snow and the village drops, Allan and Much have little to say. It’s almost as though they’ve decided to pretend Guy doesn’t exist.

Allan tells me he has been to Nottingham. He tells me the town is ominously quiet. No one has seen Prince John for the last two weeks or so and the sickly sheriff is still abed with whatever malady he is suffering from. The castle is in a state of lockdown. No one goes in or comes out, apart from the odd trader willing to drag himself through the snow or a castle servant or messenger. I’m beginning to think I should have let Guy go into the castle after all. At least that way we might have some idea of what the prince is up to. My guess is that he’s holding the castle with only a small contingent of knights, men-at-arms and archers and is waiting for reinforcements to show up, hence the lockdown.

After eating my fill and finding nothing else to talk about that won’t upset at least one of us, I take my leave. No plans have been made, other than I will come back tomorrow.

It is the same the next day. And in the days and weeks that follow.

When I ask about Little John’s whereabouts, Allan tells me he is around but has decided to make himself scarce whenever I turn up. I wonder if I should turn up in the middle of the night and catch him out. But I don’t. I arrive after breakfast and leave before supper. I help with the village drops, chop firewood and hunt with Much. Every so often, the three of us ambush a rich noble foolish enough to make his or her way through the forest. I come alone, figuring that sooner or later the gang will finally work out that Guy and me are for keeps. But it’s not the same and it never will be.

Allan finds every opportunity to make snide remarks, as if my present behaviour cancels out his earlier treachery ten times over. And Much simply wanders about the camp looking perpetually sad and bewildered. John is never there.

Today is no different, except that the snows and the rains have finally ceased.

After leaving the camp, I return home to find Guy warming his hands in front of the fire. I’m hardly through the door before he asks me what he asks me every day: is there news from Nottingham, have I spoken to Little John and can he come with me tomorrow. No, no, and no, I tell him.

I take off my cloak and weapons. Guy pours me the now customary goblet of wine, tops up his own and nods towards the evening meal. I know he hasn’t had much to do with it, other than placing it on the table perhaps. Elisabeth, the lavender girl, is the one who stocks our larder and prepares our meals in return for a handful of coins, which she takes home to Nessa, her overworked mother.

“I’ll eat shortly,” I tell him. “I need to go find another pair of boots and dry stockings. This one,”– I lift my right leg –“is letting in water.” I recall seeing an old pair of boots under the bed. “Feel free to start without me.”

Clearly hungry, Guy scrapes back a chair and starts piling food into a bowl. I make my way upstairs.

On hands and knees, I grope under the bed, searching for the boots. However, it is not the texture of soft leather I touch, but something hard and wooden.

I don’t recognise the box. I certainly don’t recall it being mine. Curious, the boots forgotten, I place the box on my lap and fiddle with the clasp. It is locked. Tucked inside a slot in my knife-belt is a small pick, one Will Scarlett gave me. Moments later, I flip up the lid.

There are coins in the box – masses of them – enough to keep the village fed for several weeks, not to mention keeping the new and somewhat odious tax collector from turning my peasants out of their homes. But this money is also damning evidence. Prince John and the new sheriff have not sent men to Locksley. They have not even issued any threats or rewards despite our handing out coin in Nottingham. Why? Has Guy gone behind my back and colluded with them, this money being payment for his services? Is this a trap and, if it is, why hasn’t Guy already sprung it? I am here and he knows where the camp is. Is he playing all of us for fools? I don’t understand.

~

“What’s this?” I bang the box on the table.

Guy continues to eat, keeping his eyes on his food.

“Well. I’m waiting.”

Carefully, Guy wipes his mouth, pushes back his chair and comes to his feet. “It’s my money. I hid it here, a long time ago.”

“So it’s been upstairs, under the bed, all the time we’ve been living here?”

“Yes.”

“Why for God’s sake? You know that pickings have been slim these past few weeks and that I’ve hardly been able to thieve enough coin to feed us let alone my peasants. Yet all the time, you’ve had this pile of coins hidden under the bed.”

“It’s a safety net.”

“What do you mean a safety net? For what?”

“For the future. Our future or mine. It depends.”

“Depends on what?”

“On whether you’re going to keep giving all we have to every poor bugger that comes knocking on our door.”

“It’s what I do, Guy. You know that.”

“What’s wrong with keeping a little bit for us?”

“You call this a little bit.” I dig my hands into the box and let the coins shower nosily onto the table. “We have everything we need here. Unless you’re planning on redecorating the house perhaps.”

Ignoring my feeble attempt at wit, Guy starts scooping the fallen money back into the box. I slam my hands on top of his and our eyes lock in the knowledge that we have started something.

“I want to know,” I demand. “You said our future or mine. What did you mean by that?”

“You must think me a fool.”

“What?”

He yanks his hands from under mine and glares at me. “You said it yourself. We have everything we need. Of course, what you really mean is _you_ have everything _you_ need: your home, your friends, your precious people. What do I have? Nothing. Nothing except you and your favours.”

“That’s not true.”

“Yes it is!” He slaps the table, making the coins jump. “You’ve hardly said a word to me in weeks. You go off to the forest, to be with them, leaving me here. I can’t even go out the door. All those bloody hostile looks the villagers give me. The only reason they leave me alone is because you told them to. I’m nothing more than a meaningless fuck. A piece of meat you can come home to—”

I whirl around to face him and grab a handful of leather. “That’s enough!”

“You could leave me in an instant,” he says. “You have choices. You—”

“Guy!” I had no idea he felt this way.

“— could go back to your old life,” he continues.

“Not without you, you idiot.”

“What do you mean, not without me?”

“For God’s sake. What do you think this is?” I grab his upper arms and kiss him, hard. His lips taste salty. Then, letting go of him, I take a step backwards, waiting for him to grasp the sincerity of my words and kiss.

Guy runs a hand through his hair, a dazed expression on his face. “I thought . . . I thought that you—”

“You shouldn’t think so much,” I cut across him.

He is right. I should not have left him on his own as often as I have. I should have let him come with me to the forest and to hell with the consequences.

“Just give me some time. I’ll make it right with the gang, I promise.”

“No!” he says with renewed vehemence. “You can’t make it right. This will never be right in their eyes. And if your peasants find out about us, you could lose everything. And if that happens then you won’t want me any more.”

“In time . . . .”

“In time _what_?” he says. “Answer me this, then. If I asked you to come away with me, so we could—”

“Where?”

“I don’t know. France. Anywhere. Would you come?”

I look at the table and notice we have pork for the third day running.

“I thought so,” he says.

“Guy, listen I—”

“Forget it!”

He snatches up the box, strides across the room and bounds up the stairs.

~

I find him sitting on the bed, the box resting on his thighs.

“Not very original, was it?” I say.

“Sorry?”

I sit next to him, our legs touching. “Under the bed?”

“Oh. No. Not very.” His lips twitch, on the edge of a smile. “It’s just . . . .”

“What?”

“It’s just I’m not used to someone caring about me.”

“Marian cared.”

“I know.”

We sit in the gathering gloom and I watch as he fiddles with the box’s clasp. If it were possible to put all our hurts in that box, I would lock them in there. And then I would hurl the box out the window, as far as Locksley pond, where it would sink without a trace.

“Here.” He places the box on my lap. It’s yours now.”

“What?”

“For the poor,” he says.

~

Downstairs, I snuff out the candles and rake over the fire. After a quick bite of bread and a mouthful of wine, I return to the bedchamber.

Guy is lying face down on the bed. He is still dressed, apart from his boots, which sit neatly together by his side of the bed. I can’t be sure, but I think he is crying.

I pull off my waterlogged boot and my wet stocking and lie next to him. I press into his cold leather doublet and, when he doesn’t push me away, stroke his hair.

“I will make things right,” I say. “Trust me.”

He rolls onto his side, facing away from me. I can hear him trying not to sniff too loudly. I continue stroking his hair until he stops shaking. Then I put my arms around him and lay my ringed hand on the gentle rise and fall of his chest. Guy sighs, takes my hand in his and laces our fingers together. I don’t know why, but this simple form of embrace feels like one of the nicest things we’ve done.

That’s when I think I might be falling in love with him.

 


	11. A Ride in the Forest

Filthy dog. Rope him up. Now!

Ignore them. I have to keep running, mustn’t stop. But where are the dogs? It’s too dark. I can’t see them. My back smacks into something hard, knocking the breath out of me.

“Robin?”

A man, talking to me, louder this time, close to my ear. Something has hold of my wrist. Man or beast? My hand tightens around the hilt of my knife. Armed, I still have a chance.

I raise my head, expecting to look into the accusatory face of one of my pursuers. Instead, I find Guy, leaning over me, his fingers wrapped around my wrist. He is wearing his usual black leathers, although, for some reason, I think that he shouldn’t be. Frantically, I turn my head this way and that. There are no dogs and no ropes. I’m in Locksley. It’s night or maybe morning, I’m not sure which, and we are in bed. Except I’m not. I’m on the floor and my right foot feels as if there’s an iron weight attached to it and, when I finally work out where my foot is, I see it is devoid of both stocking and boot.

“Guy?”

“You were dreaming,” he says. “You fell out of bed.”

My heart is thudding painfully against my ribcage. I feel sick. Resting my forehead on the edge of the bed, I close my eyes, to make it dark. But the dream is still there – as bright as day.

We are running, Guy and me. Men are chasing us along the corridors of Nottingham Castle. Racing to catch us are Prince John, his guards, the gang, even King Richard himself. Blades are drawn, arrows aimed. We chase up to the battlements. We are holding hands. I’m pulling Guy or he’s pulling me – it keeps changing. Men are coming at us from every direction. There is nowhere to run. We exchange a look. This is the end and we know it. We kiss – desperately, passionately. Still holding hands, we jump. Our bodies smack onto the hard cobbles and are broken. Yet, I am alive. I do not die. Because arrows can bounce off me. But my lover, my confidant, my Guy, he is dead, the back of his head smashed like an egg. Blood, as bright as holly berries, seeps along the cracks in the cobbles. Guy’s hair is slick with it. He is on his back. His eyes are wide open, staring at the bluest of skies, but they will never see me again.

Guy cups a hand under my chin. “Are you all right?”

He brushes my cheek with his thumb and holds his hand up to the thin strip of daylight filtering through the broken shutter. The pad of his thumb is glistening and realise I must have been crying in my sleep.

I wonder where my worn breeches have gone – the ones that were blocking the gap in the shutter – and guess by the sound of the fierce wind that they must be outside, beneath the window, in the snow.

“Was it—?”

I think Guy is about to say Marian, but he changes his mind. Instead, he asks, “Do you always sleep with a dagger under your pillow?”

“What?” I look at the knife, still clutched in my right hand. “Sorry. Force of habit.”

Guy lifts his own pillow. A small but deadly looking blade lies on the sheet. Carefully, he prises the knife from my hand and lays it on the bedside table.

“You know, we’d best take care,” he says. “We wouldn’t want to accidentally kill one another in the night.”

“No, we wouldn’t,” I say. My right foot is tingling. I ease myself back onto the bed and knead it back to life. “Besides, I can think of better things to do.”

I don’t know why I said that. I want nothing more than to lie down and sleep. I feel incredibly tired, as though I haven’t slept at all, as though I’ve spent the whole night running.

Guy smiles, heartened to find the Robin he lives with. What he doesn’t realise is that underneath the bravado and easygoing manner there is a different Robin – a scared, confused and desperate Robin.

I let him pull my sweat-soaked shirt over my head. His hands move to my belt and I watch with almost detached interest as he undoes the buckle.

I don’t think anything is going to happen. It’s too cold and I can still hear the men shouting _filthy dog_ and _rope him up_. I can still see the battlements and the blood creeping along the cracks in the cobbles. But it might help me forget my nightmare. I also think Guy will be disappointed if I don’t.

He lowers himself onto the floor and, belly-down, wriggles under the bed.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Looking for the jar. I think you knocked it off the table when you were thrashing about.”

“Leave it,” I tell him. I lean over to look. All I can see are ankles and very white feet. “Guy, it doesn’t matter.”

I’m not sure I want to fuck right now. I’m not even sure where I should be: here, half-dressed, staring down at Guy’s bare feet, or out in the cold, snowy forest with my friends.

With a huff of annoyance, Guy works his way out from under the bed. “I can’t find the blasted thing.” He climbs up onto the bed and kneels in front of me. “I suppose we can manage to do without.”

He brushes my sleep-tousled hair away from my eyes. I realise that if I don’t deal with it soon, it’ll grow as long as his. Perhaps I should ask Much to cut it. I can picture him now, fussing over every lock. And then he takes the cutters and starts gouging my forehead. And I let him. I sit, enduring the agony, the blood running into my eyes, until he is finished. He will wipe both the cutters and his hands on his apron, and then he will find something to show my reflection, so I can admire his bloody handiwork. And I will think, but Much can’t write, let alone spell. Yet etched on my forehead is the word _sodomite_ in perfectly formed letters with no misspellings. There, Much will say, you’re done. What he actually means is you’re done for.

I don’t care. I’ve stopped caring about many things lately. I wonder when I will start caring again, when something will rekindle the lust for life that I lost after Marian died.

Then I remember. Last night I was falling in love with Guy, wasn’t I? I’m an idiot. I can’t fall in love with him. I can’t fall in love with anyone who isn’t Marian.

Guy sits back and regards me. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.”

I study his face. There are dark shadows under his eyes from too many sleepless nights. His blue eyes glitter, both from lack of sleep and from understanding. He knows that I suffer, although I think he no longer knows why.

He leans forwards and kisses me. I find his hand and guide it to my undone belt buckle. I want his touch and, despite my earlier misgivings, I harden.

_Dog. Filthy._

Guy’s hand rubs, gently but insistently, on the fabric swell of my breeches. I realise I’m about to spill my seed before I’m fully undressed and voice some inarticulate warning in order to get him to back off, but he takes it as encouragement to continue teasing and rubs harder. A heartbeat later, I cave into him.

“Sorry,” I say, heated embarrassment crawling up my neck.

Guy waits until my tremors cease and then nudges my head away from his neck. His roguish grin tells me he’s delighted I am so easy to break. All the times he tried and failed to ensnare me, and all it takes is this.

He starts unlacing my breeches.

I halt his hand. “It won’t be pretty.”

“I don’t want pretty,” he says. “I want you.”

He tugs my breeches and undergarments to my knees and then works his leathers down his legs. I fondle him until he is fully hard and then shuffle around and offer him my back.

“Are you sure?” he asks.

“Yes.”

Leaning forwards, I bury my face in the pillow. I imagine a bloody crimson imprint, the word sodomite clearing delineated on the linen and wonder whether, by pressing my nose and mouth long and hard into the pillow, I might suffocate.

“Are you ready?” Guy asks.

I’m not sure why he’s being so polite about it. I don’t want nice. I don’t want kind. I want him to hurt me, as if by doing so it might remind me that I have chosen a path that will ultimately lead to my destruction because that is what I surely deserve.

“Do your worst,” I say.

“Really?”

“Really.”

He doesn’t need the jar. A hand in my soiled breeches and he has the means. I remember to relax. A rush of breath and he’s in.

Mostly, he says very little when we fuck; very occasionally, like the first time he fucked me, he is talkative. This morning he is quiet. The only sounds in the room are his rapid breaths and the creaks and groans of the bed frame.

I open my eyes and notice a long dark hair lying on the pillow. I think of Marian. Every grunt we make, every thrust, every groan is a betrayal of her memory.

Guy slams into me and another trickle of spent lust warms my exposed flesh. Encircling me with his arms, we collapse onto the sheets. Once again, I feel the weight of him on top of me and I know my feelings for him have nothing to do with Marian, not any more.

Lust has become love. Now what am I supposed to do? Because all I know of love is that it leads to heartache, and I’m not sure that I can face it again.

~

“Here, wear this.”

I look up in time to catch the scarf Guy tosses me.

“What? Just this?”

“Idiot,” he says, his lips curling up into a happy smile.

Reaching for my clothes, I tell him, “Black’s not really my colour.”

“It is as of now.” He indicates my neck.

I touch my fingers to the bruised skin where he nipped me.

“Don’t worry. I’ll tell the gang the horse did it.”

“What horse?”

“The one you’re going riding on.”

“What do you mean, riding?”

“I’m not going to see the gang today. And you’re not staying in this house. We’re going riding.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“Unless you have a better one?”

He pretends to think.

“We’ve just done that,” I tell him.

“Still, practice makes perfect.”

Guy nods pointedly at my breeches, the pair lying crumpled on the floor, the pair I’m contemplating wearing, rather than the ones half-buried in the snow.

I shrug. “Well, even Robin Hood is allowed to be less than perfect on occasion.”

“Oh, believe me. You’re definitely less than perfection, Robin.”

Something tells me this pleases him greatly.

I step into my breeches, re-thread my belt and scan the room for my boots.

“Your boots are under the bed,” he says.

I lower myself to the floor and wriggle under the bed. I find the wooden box, still full of coins. I also find the jar of grease.

As I resurface, Guy holds out a hand, palm up, indicating that he wants the jar.

“Guy, we’re going riding, not—”

“It’s for the horses.” He whips up a cautioning hand. “And that doesn’t require one of your childish witticisms.”

“Did I say anything?”

“You don’t have to. I know what you’re like.”

I watch as he dresses, just because I can. Always, he puts things on in the same order. I smile and wonder what would happen if I hid his stockings.

~

Wrapped warmly against the cold and snow, we head for the stables.

“I didn’t think we had any horses,” Guy says.

“We do now.”

“Where did you get them from?”

“Where do you think? I stole them of course. I’m an outlaw, remember?”

“I remember.”

“So, which one do you want?” I ask.

Guy eyes the saddled palfreys.

“That one.”

He points to the grey. I might have known he’d go for the less skittish of the two.

“Fair enough.” I swing into the bay’s saddle.

“You planned this?” he asks.

“Yes.”

The two fine palfreys – courtesy of Prince John’s poorly guarded stables – paw the snowy ground, eager for some exercise. Deciding on caution, we avoid riding directly through Locksley, instead following a track that will take us wide of the village. The less my peasants know of our movements the better.

“Where to?” Guy asks.

I point.

“The forest?”

“Why not?”

“Because I hate the forest, that’s why.”

“Don’t worry. We’re not going to the camp.”

“The camp I can do. It’s all those bloody trees I hate.”

I laugh. “Real nature guy, aren’t you.”

It’s Guy’s turn to laugh, however, when my horse unexpectedly swerves, perhaps to avoid some obstacle half-hidden by the snow. Unprepared, I tumble from the saddle. The snow is deep and cold and not as soft as it looks.

Thankfully, the well-trained bay comes to a halt some short distance away.

Grinning in pure joy, Guy swings off his horse and offers me a hand. And it is then that I see what it was that Marian must have seen in him, or at least must have known was there, if only one could find the right key to unlock it. If all it takes is a tumble in the snow to reveal this side of Guy, then I’ll happily fall off my horse a hundred times over.

“Are you all right?” he asks, not very seriously.

“Been a while since I’ve ridden a horse,” I tell him. I come to my feet, brushing snow from my clothing.

“I’m surprised you can ride at all this morning.”  

“I’m tougher than I look.”

“You must be.”

As if to prove my point, I thump onto the bay’s saddle and whack my boots into the animal’s flanks. Ahead is a fallen tree. The bay clears it easily and, slowing, I turn around and indicate it’s Guy’s turn.

“I didn’t know this was a competition,” he shouts. The grey makes the jump and Guy pats its neck and smiles in satisfaction.

“Who’s competing?” I ask.

Guy pulls up alongside me. “You are.”

“Sorry. It won’t happen again.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it.”

Slowing to a gentle canter, we head towards Sherwood Forest.

~

Guy’s eyes dart this way and that.

“Relax,” I tell him. “The only real threat in the forest used to be me.”

Guy shoots me a look, as if to say ‘listen to you, being the big _I am_ again’.

The forest is quiet and white and beautiful.

“This way,” I tell him.

We pass the Kissing Tree. I open my mouth to tell Guy about it but then change my mind. I am prepared to share my body, my hopes, even my dreams with him, but not the memories I have of this one particular spot. This will always be our place – Marian’s and mine. I need to keep something of her just for me.

Guy snaps his fingers in front of my face, breaking my reverie.

“I know why you do it,” he says.

“Do what?”

“All this helping the poor and the needy.”

“Oh?”

“Don’t get me wrong, Robin. You do care about those people, you do have a heart; you wouldn’t be with me if you didn’t. But it’s more than that, isn’t it? You like . . . no, you crave the adoration, the looks they give you when you perform some good and charitable deed. I’ve seen it. It makes you feel. . . .”

He crinkles his brow.

“Powerful,” I suggest.

“Yes. Powerful. Don’t deny it.”

“I’m not. I’m only human after all and we all have our weaknesses.”

“And am I one of those weaknesses?”

He guides the grey closer to my horse, until our legs are touching. We draw rein and I swivel in my saddle. Guy does likewise.

“Yes,” I tell him.

“Is that why you’re with me then – a weakness? Is that the answer to all this?”

“It’s the only one I’m giving, so let’s just leave it at that shall we.”

“You’ll leave me,” he says. “When the thrill has worn off, you’ll leave me.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Because I know. But I’m going to do everything I can to keep you. I will help you oust Prince John. I will risk my life for your precious king, for what you believe in. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll win you in the process.”

“You’ve already won me, you fool. I told you before.”

“Then I’ll make sure I keep you. I’ll be your slave, your whipping boy, hell, you can fuck me ten times a night for all I—”

“Ten times,” I say with a snort. “Even I’m not that good.”

“Be serious, can’t you.”

“I am being serious.”

“What is it really?” he asks doggedly. “And why me of all people?”

“I think you know why.”

“Tell me.”

“Look. I like lying next to you. I like having something warm to cuddle. I like hearing you breathing beside me. I like . . . I like waking up next to someone.”

“You could have all that with a dog.”

“You know what I mean.”

I lean across and kiss Guy’s icy lips quelling any further questions. He puts an arm around me and explores my mouth with his warm tongue. Our breaths plume white in the frosty air.

He breaks away. “Let’s go back to Locksley.”

I nod. Then I hear the jangle of a bridle, not one of ours.

“Damn,” I curse.

Someone is nearby. But is it friend or foe, and should we wait to find out?

 

 


	12. Pursuit

I put a finger to my lips. Guy sits stock-still in his saddle, eyes fearful. A horse snorts and I catch a low whisper. Either whoever is out there, hiding behind the snowy foliage, is talking to himself or there is more than one of them.

Several heartbeats go by and then a helmeted figure appears, more behind him: castle guards, Princes John’s men, nine or ten of them at a quick count.

“This way,” I tell Guy.

I whack my boots on my horse’s flanks. The bay whinnies in protest, but complies, mouth snapping at the bit as I urge it into a headlong gallop. Guy rides beside me, his mass of dark hair whipping against his leathered back, his face grim and determined. We are heading towards thicker forest, although it will be of little use, bare as the trees mostly are. Our only hope is to outrun or, in this case, out-gallop our pursuers.

“How many?” Guy asks.

I glance behind me again. For the moment, the guards are out of sight. “I don’t know. About nine or ten.”

I didn’t expect this and I should have. The lockdown at the castle is a clear indication that something untoward is happening or is about to happen in Nottingham. I should have taken more care. My foolhardiness has put both Guy and myself in danger, not to mention the gang if they are about the forest.

“Where are we going?” Guy shouts.

I’m thinking about my chances with my bow, coupled with Guy’s help, but I know the odds are too great.

“Split up,” I tell him. 

“No.”

“Yes. We’ll stand a better chance. I’ll meet you.”

“Where?”

“Dead Man’s Crossing. Fifty yards east is a gully.”

“I know it. But we can’t just—”

Guy clamps his mouth, the unmistakeable crack and thud of snapping branches and pounding hooves silencing any further protest.

“And Guy?”

“What?”

“Don’t get caught.”

“Don’t you,” he returns.

With a parting look of regret, he peels off and, after a final glance behind me, I head in the opposite direction.

~

I know this forest well, but the snow has obliterated once familiar paths and I’m no longer sure of my bearings. The only thing I am confident of is that I’m heading away from the camp. I risk another fleeting look behind me. It appears the guards have fallen for our device and have split into two groups, better odds should I decide to make a stand.

Bending low over the bay’s neck to avoid treacherous branches heavy with snow, I concentrate on weaving between the trees and keeping my seat.

Last night I dreamed men were chasing Guy and me. Now here we are, running for our lives. Except we are not on foot, nor chasing through the castle, nor holding hands, and, if this is to be the end, there will be no last kiss either. We will die separately, alone but for the satisfied grins of our pursuers.

I hear shouts and barks of command along with the chink and clank of mail and sword. Yanking the reins, I force the bay into a sharp turn, my thighs gripping the saddle in an effort to stay seated. I know where I am now. There’s the tree I slumped against as Marian chastised me for fighting with Guy. _Everything is a choice, everything we do_. What choice should I make now? Fight or flight? The bay has plenty of gallop left in it but those guards are on decent mounts and if it all comes down to horseflesh, it’s hard to say who’ll last the distance.

If the guards have made an even split there should be only four or five of them on my tail. But it’s already become obvious my bow will be of little or no use. The guards are wearing all manner of protective clothing. Only an arrow in their more vulnerable necks might offer me any chance of success. And I will have to do it several times over. That leaves my sword. My training with Sheridan, my years fighting in the Holy Land and then afterwards as an outlaw means I’m quite the swordsman, but I do not believe I can fight off what in all likelihood is a highly trained unit of men. And I still haven’t tested my injured arm in a full-on swordfight. No. The only option seems to be to keep riding and evade capture.

Urging my mount on, I speed towards Dead Man’s Crossing, praying I will find Guy there, alive and well and that together we can make a stand if we have to.  

~

I reach the gully. There is no sign of Guy and the guards that were chasing me are still in pursuit.  Looking behind me, I stare in dismay at the pristine snow churned up by my horse’s hoofs and berate myself for being an idiot. I might just as well put up a sign saying 'Robin Hood went this way'. It’s time to disappear.

Drawing rein, I launch myself from the saddle and then smack the bay’s rump as hard as I can, scuttling backwards to avoid flying hoofs. My earlier tumble had already proved the horse to be a well-disciplined beast; it’s no good me attempting to send the guards off on a wild goose chase if the damned animal is going to come to a halt some few paces from where I’m hiding.

I tear off my gloves; I need the feel of the bow and arrow to be certain of a perfect line. I take aim. As the arrow grazes its hindquarters, the bay rears up in protest; almost certainly I have drawn blood. I watch as my horse hurtles away and disappears from view. There is no time to regret its loss or worry that I might have made the wrong decision. Stuffing my discarded gloves in my belt and shouldering my bow, I pause to listen. The guards are getting closer.

The gully is some twenty paces or so behind me. I start to work backwards, swishing a twiggy branch across my all-too-obvious boot tracks. It’s not a perfect disguise but, at a quick glance, it might just do the trick.

At the gully’s edge, I fling the branch away. I turn and look down. It’s deeper than I remember, certainly from this side. But I can hear the horses galloping towards me and there’s no time to find an easier passage. I drop my bow into the narrow chasm and jump.

Remembering to bend my knees, I make an almost perfect landing. Heart thumping wildly, I press into the side of the gully, under an overhang of snow-covered roots, the warm, iron-salt taste of blood filling my mouth where I bit my tongue. Holding perfectly still, I wait for the guards to detect my hastily concocted ruse or for the stupid horse to betray me.

At an authoritative shout of, “This way,” I swiftly nock an arrow, desperately wondering which side they will approach from or, worse still, whether they might surround me. The words sitting duck come to mind. I ease the bowstring back, ready.

Heartbeat after heartbeat, I wait for the helmeted faces and their accompanying chortles of glee. Nothing. I spit blood, lower my bow and step into the centre of the gully.

Glancing upwards, I notice an audacious robin cocking its tiny head at me. Catching my movement, the robin flits away. A branch cracks. I whirl around, re-nocking my arrow. No amused faces appear and no exultations of success ring out. I lower my bow, guessing it was another forest creature or perhaps just weight of snow.

Time passes. The weak winter sun gives way to dusk. I stamp my feet and flap my arms in an effort to keep warm. I pull off a glove and probe my split tongue. My finger comes away bloody. I scoop up some snow and let it sit in my mouth, hoping it will staunch both the bleeding and the annoying throb and sting. Then, miserable and scared, I wait for Guy.

~

Not so long ago, sheltering from the chill autumn wind, we had stood in a secluded gully similar to this one. After Guy had slid a ring on my finger and kissed me, I realised that we couldn’t immediately return to the gang, that we had to exchange a few words about what was likely to happen now that we had declared our true feelings for each other. I knew of a deep ditch nearby where we could hide from prying eyes and led Guy to it.

In truth, we did very little talking; we had no idea what to say to one another. There were a few faltering admittances, a few mangled explanations as to why we had ended up in each other’s arms, but nothing that could possibly justify the magnitude of what had almost happened in the camp earlier, before Matilda stumbled upon us, and the kiss we had just enjoyed.

I am hungry. I think of Locksley Manor: the blazing fire, the glow of candles warding off the evening gloom and the wine Guy always hands me the moment I enter the hall. I wonder about climbing out of my hiding place and taking my chances on foot. I am not happy with the idea of walking through the forest in darkness, but I know if I stay in this gully much longer it’s quite likely I’ll end up freezing to death.

To make matters worse, it is snowing again, and I have this absurd image of the snow burying me and of no one finding me until it melts, by which time I will be no more than a pile of bones, identifiable only by my tag and my weapons. And around my skeletal finger, they’ll find a bulky silver ring, evidence of the traitorous relationship that was to prove my undoing.

I pull off my glove and feel a perverse kind of joy that the ring is still there.

Why is Guy taking so long? I want to believe it’s because he’s lost his way, but realistically I have to consider the more likely alternative: they have caught or killed him. My chest fills with a painful hollowness and I start trying to think of names for the bay in an effort to push the bleak thought away.

A horse whinnies and I flatten myself against the gully wall. I hear someone dismounting and catch the unmistakeable metallic slide of a sword leaving its scabbard. I nock an arrow, step away from the overhang’s scant protection and target a spot just above gully’s lip, hoping I have judged it correctly.

A pale face, framed by a mass of long dark hair, peeks over the edge of my hiding place. I lower my bow.

“You fucker, Guy. Next time, announce yourself. I could have killed you.”

Grinning, he straightens up and then makes his way around to the other side of our meeting place. He carefully picks his way down the snow-covered slope and, when he considers it safe, jumps the final small measure to land just in front of me.

“What’s with the sword, anyway?” I ask, mildly irritated that he has made it here seemingly without as much as a scratch.

“I had to be careful,” he says. “For all I knew they had found you hiding here and they might well have been lying in wait for me.”

“You kept the horse?”

I don’t mean to sound cross, but I will admit to being grudgingly impressed that Guy not only managed to evade the guards, but also that he kept hold of the grey.

“I thought it might come in useful for our ride back to Locksley. What happened to yours? Dumped you again?”

“No. I got rid of it, hoping the guards might follow it, which they did. How did you get away?”

“I’m not the incompetent fool everyone makes me out to be, you know.”

“Did I say that?”

“You don’t have to. And anyway,” he says, “they gave up.”

“Gave up?”

“They stopped chasing me. God knows why. Perhaps you’re the only one they were interested in.”

“Well, as you can see, they didn’t get me either.”

“So, shall we go home?”

“No. We can’t go back to Locksley, at least, not in the short term. It’s too dangerous. If there are guards in the forest, they might be at the village too. We can’t take the risk.”

“Then where can we—?”

“The camp,” I interrupt.

“We can’t. I can’t.”

“Yes, we can. It’s my camp as much as theirs. We’ll stay there until we find out what’s going on in Nottingham.”

Ignoring Guy’s further objections about us living at the camp, I shoulder my bow and make my way out of the gully.

Moments later, we are sitting astride Guy’s horse, him in front, me behind, my arms wrapped around his waist. As we follow the track that will take us to the camp, I make a mental note to alert Guy when we are nearing the camp traps. The last thing I want is for the two of us to end up hanging from a tree, suspended in a net, with Much telling us that it serves us right and Allan grinning and making suggestive remarks.

 


	13. Sanctuary

“No,” John says, thumping the end of his staff on the ground for emphasis.

This is the first time I’ve seen him since I announced my intention to reside at Locksley with Guy. He looks tired, shrunken. His grizzled hair is even more unkempt, if that’s possible, and I wonder where he’s been spending his time whenever I’ve been at the camp.

“Keep going,” I tell Guy.

He clicks the grey forwards.

“What’s this then?” Allan asks. He is slouching against a tree, arms folded, an amused look on his face. “New economy-drive in the lords’ manor – one horse between two?”

I am uncomfortably aware of my arms, still clutched around Guy’s waist, but I resolutely leave them where they are, not wishing to draw further attention to myself.

Guy guides the grey around the campfire and through the nearby stacks of logs and kindling.

John grunts and snatches up his staff.

Much glances fearfully at John, turns to his cooking pit, picks up a wooden spoon, stares at it, puts it down and picks up a large, flat-bottomed pan instead. He holds the pan aloft, waving it slightly, a determined look on his face.

“Much,” I say. “What are you doing?”

Much looks at the pan and then, ridiculously, tries to hide it behind his back.

I almost laugh at my friend’s absurdity, but John’s hostile glare makes me think I should tread carefully here.

Guy draws rein and I swing to the ground. “We need to stay here for a bit.”

I glance at Allan. I can see the temptation to say ‘for a bit of what?’ written all over his face. He wisely keeps his mouth shut.

John points his staff at Guy. “Not _him_.”

“Yes, him as well. Guy is one of us now. The plan was always for him to help us or have you conveniently forgotten that?”

“The plan was to use him as a spy, not to be part of the gang.”

“Well he’s with me, so that makes him part of this gang. And either he stays or I leave, for good.”

I hear the soft, leather-creak of Guy dismounting. He comes and stands next to me, our arms touching. I’m sorely tempted to take hold of his hand and rub our togetherness in their judgmental faces.

“What happened?” Allan asks. “Trouble in Locksley? Someone rat you two out?”

“There were guards,” I explain. “In the forest. We were out riding when they came upon us.”

Allan’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Riding horses,” I elaborate somewhat heatedly. “It must have been obvious to them that Guy and I are on friendly terms, which means Guy being a spy in the castle is out of the question now.”

I’m not going to mention the fact that I wasn’t letting him go in any case.

“How many were there?” Allan asks.

“About nine or ten.”

Allan and John exchange a brief look.

“What is it?” I ask.

Allan says, “Something’s going on in the castle. It’s been quiet for days, but yesterday there was lots of noise, banging and stuff, like they was building something.”  

“Gallows for us most likely,” Much says morosely.

I flick my eyes at each of the gang in turn.

“We need to go to Nottingham,” I tell them. “We need to find out what Prince John is up to.”

Everyone nods, even a reluctant Much.

“Not _him_ , though,” John says, indicating Guy. “And he is _not_ staying here, not tonight, not ever.”

“Allan?” I say.

“Look,” Allan says. “I’m not taking sides here. I couldn’t care less where you two decide to set up home. Right now, I’m more worried about our necks, particularly mine.”

“What about you?” I ask Much. “What do you think?”

“About what?”

“About Guy and me staying here. At least until we find out what’s going on in Nottingham?”

“You’re asking for my opinion?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that’ll be a first.”

Much carefully places the heavy pan next to the wooden spoon and, after a moment’s deliberation, defiantly meets my eye.

“You want to know what I think. Well, I’ll tell you, shall I. What I think is that this is wrong. Everything is wrong. That you should be here, in the camp, making those idiotic plans of yours to outwit the sheriff, except that he’s dead, of course. And that Marian should be here, except that she’s . . .” He takes a breath, starts again. “And that Djaq and Will should be here. And that one day I will wake up and find that this has all been a bad dream and you’ll be peppering trees with arrows and working out how to get to Nottingham Fayre to win the Silver Arrow, and Will will be carving some fancy head or something, and Djaq will be mixing some weird paste and . . . and . . .” Much squeezes his eyes shut and then opens them again. “It’s not a dream, is it? And you’re not coming back, are you?”

“I’d like to. If you’ll have me.”

Allan sidles up to John and places a placatory hand on his arm. “How about it, eh, John? Guy’s hardly a threat any more, at least not to us. I reckon we could do with his help. He may not be much of an archer, but he ain’t bad with a sword.”

With a huff of annoyance, John snatches his arm away from Allan’s hand.

“You may have been taken in by his _charms_ , Robin, but not me. I will never forgive him for what he’s done.”

“John, I—”

“Listen,” Guy interrupts. “You don’t have to forgive me. You don’t even have to like me. But, like it or not, I’m with Robin now, and that makes us on the same side.”

“No! You cannot be one of us. You killed a defenceless woman, you—”

Guy’s hand leaps to his sword.

“Guy,” I warn.

John bares his teeth.

Now I see what this is about. It’s about Marian. I always knew John cared for her well-being, and it was never more obvious than after Marian’s father, Edward, was killed. I did my best, but big, quiet, gentle John was the one who had the right words when it counted, not me.

Guy’s upper lip curls in response to John’s bared teeth. I recognise the danger sign.

“Murderer!” John roars. He charges towards Guy.

Guy pulls his sword.

“Guy. No!”

He hesitates at my outcry, but John keeps barrelling towards him. Before I have a chance to react, John swings his staff at Guy’s head. Unprepared, Guy takes the full force of the blow. His arms fling upwards, his sword flying from his grasp. He staggers backwards and then crashes to the ground. John throws his staff aside and towers over Guy, fist drawn back.

“John. Stop. Now!” I raise my bow and fix an arrow to the bowstring.

Guy is half-buried in the snow, blood oozing from an ugly gash on his forehead. His eyes are closed.

John looks up, his fist midair, and sees my arrow pointed at him.

“Robin. You wouldn’t?”

“Try me.” Unwaveringly, I aim the arrow at John’s midriff.

Shaking his head in disbelief, John backs away.

I drop my bow and crouch next to Guy. Blood is trickling down the side of his head, staining the snow pink. I gently lift his head. His hair has bits of snow sticking to it. Blood runs over and under my fingers and my nightmare of yesterday, of Guy lying crushed and broken on the cobbles, smashes into me, and, for a moment, I can hardly breathe.

His eyelids flicker. He opens his eyes.

“Guy?”

He blinks a few times, finally resting dazed blue eyes on my face.

“Robin?”

“It’s all right. You’re all right.” Relief floods through me. I eye the cut and the swelling skin on his forehead. “Much,” I yell. “Get me some water and a cloth.”

“I . . . er—”

“Now!”

“Er . . . yes . . . right.”

I help Guy sit. Undoing my neck scarf, I gently press it to his forehead to staunch the bleeding.

“Here.” Allan kneels beside me and hands me a wet cloth.

“Thank you.”

Allan coughs and lightly brushes my neck. “Nasty bite you’ve got there.”

In the midst of all this, Allan still has to have a dig.

“Want one?” Guy snaps.

“I’m not that desperate,” Allan retorts.

“Go away,” I tell Allan. I’m tired of them hating me for this. Tired of them making fun at my expense. I concentrate on wiping the blood from Guy’s face.

Aware that everyone is watching, Guy snatches the cloth from my hands. “I can do it myself.”

He meets my eyes and, realising that I’m close to tears, gives me a look of apology.

“Don’t let them get to you,” he says, sotto voce. “Things will get better. In time.”

It sounds so much like the sort of thing I’d say that I find myself smiling. Sufficiently composed, I come to my feet.

“I meant what I said,” I tell them. “Either he stays and we work this thing out or I go.”

Allan shrugs his shoulders by way of a non-committal answer. Much is nodding, which I think means yes to Guy staying.

“John?”

John eyes Guy and me in turn. “He’ll help us?” he says grudgingly.

“Yes.”

John looks at the other two.

“It’s all right by me,” Allan says.

“As long as he doesn’t complain about my cooking,” Much adds.

I’m beginning to think this has less to do with the fact that I’m bedding Guy and more to do with letting him into our fraternity.

John picks up his discarded staff and turns to me. “All right. But if he as much as steps on my toe, I’ll have him.”

“I’m not planning on going anywhere near your bloody toe,” Guy says.

“All friends then,” Allan says with a grin.

I can’t help smiling at his remark. When Guy sees me smiling, he smiles too. Much is doing his best to look serious, but I can tell he’s delighted I am returning to the fold, albeit not in the way he would have wished, sans Guy. Only John’s expression remains stern. Well, what did I expect? That he would welcome Guy into our midst with open arms. As Guy said, it will take time to win them all over, possibly time we don’t have.

“Could someone please help me out of this blasted snow,” Guy says.

I offer him my hand.

Allan walks away, whistling one of his dirty little tavern ditties. Much returns to his cooking pit. John mumbles something about not wanting any supper and disappears.

“I need to look at that cut,” I tell Guy. “It might need stitches.”

Guy nods and I lead him to our sleeping area, picking up and handing him his broadsword en route.

I indicate Will’s bed. “You can sleep here.”

Guy eyes the bed and the stripy blanket covering it with some distaste. I can understand why. The blanket doubtless reminds him of the days he spent sick in the camp, before we found him.

“Don’t worry,” I say. “It’s clean. We burned the one you used.”

He sits on the bed and I check his wound. The cut is not as deep as I feared and I deem a strip of clean cloth sufficient.

“Come and have some supper with us,” I say. “I think you’ll find Much is quite the expert when it comes to cooking squirrels.”

Guy shakes his head. “I’m not hungry. You go. I think I’d prefer to lie down and sleep.”

With that, he yanks off his boots and proceeds to stretch out on the narrow bed, his stockinged feet hanging off the end. He’s not happy about being here and I’m not happy either, but until we know what’s going on in Nottingham and that it’s safe to return to Locksley, the camp must be our home.

I eye my own bed at the other end of the sleeping area and realise that, despite the fact I am with my friends, it’s going to be a very lonely night.

 


	14. A Day in the Life

Much is carving little paths through the snow with a chunk of wood. I can’t quite see the point of it, but he’s quietly singing to himself, so it’s obviously making him happy.

“Good morning,” I say.

He ignores me and, like a man on a mission, carries on pushing at the snow. The determinedly jaunty words of the song – one that I recognise – become noticeably louder, slipping off-key.

“You used to sing that in the Holy Land, when you were sweeping out our tent.”

Much stops, leans on his bit of wood and stares dejectedly at the mud-sloshed paths he’s been making. “Yes, and a fat lot of good that was too,” he says. “The wind was forever blowing the sand back in again.” He glances up at me and then looks at the piece of wood in his hands, as if he’s not sure what it’s doing there.

“Er . . . right,” he says, dropping the wood in the snow. “Breakfast. What does he want for breakfast? Only, I wasn’t counting on extra mouths, and we’ve no eggs and not much bacon.”

“It doesn’t matter,” I say. “Guy’s not keen on eggs and bacon he can live without. Cheese if you’ve got some would be good.”

“Oh. I see.”

He doesn’t like the fact that Guy and me break bread with each other, a companionable act that Much and I once did together.

“Can I help?” I ask. “With the food, I mean?”

Much looks at me as if I’ve grown two heads. He bends and picks up his piece of wood, pushes absently at the snow, then seems to remember what he’s doing, flings the wood away and stomps towards his cooking pit. Nothing I do or say is right any more.

He starts banging pots about.

I track along one of his newly dug paths until I am standing in front him. Much is delving into a deep wooden box where he keeps his cooking utensils and other paraphernalia.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’ve ruined everything, haven’t I?”

I want him to say no, but he doesn’t. Instead, he says, “Does he make you happy?”

“Yes.”

“Then,” he says, head still buried in the box, “I guess that makes it all right.”

With a triumphant, “Ah, ha!” he finally finds what he wants and straightens up, knife in hand. For one fearful moment, I think he is going to stab me.

“Here,” he says. He slaps a piece of unidentifiable meat onto a wooden board. “Chop this.”

“May I?” I indicate the knife he’s holding.

“Oh. Right.” Much hands me his chopping knife and watches as I attack the piece of meat. I wonder if we’re having yet another bowl of vegetable-less stew. If Djaq were here, she’d have something to say about that. She’d have something to say about Guy, too, and I can think of a few choice Arabic insults that might fly off her tongue. I hope she and Will are happy in that hot and hostile land, with their birds and their carpentry. I hope they are making babies. Mostly, I hope they never come back to Nottingham.

“Am I doing this by myself then?” I ask.

Much unsheathes his personal dagger and I watch as he tackles his own bit of meat, cleanly and precisely. I look at the meal I’m making of my piece and can’t decide if it’s through lack of practice or whether I’m simply aware of how close our hands are.

“Why don’t you take that off?” Much says, breaking the uneasy silence.

“What?”

“That ring.”

I stop cutting and look at the silver band around the middle finger of my right hand.

“It was a gift. Guy gave it to me as a way of saying thank you.”

“Thank you for what? For sharing your bed with him, for letting him have his way with you, for—”

“That’s enough! Listen, when—”

“No. You listen, Robin. I was counting the days until you came back to the forest. But now I think I’ve changed my mind. I think I liked it better when you were at Locksley and just visited the camp.”

“Why?”

“Because every time the two of you go off, I’m going to think. . .”

“Then don’t,” I tell him.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t think.”

“Here.” I lay down the knife and push the piece of meat towards him. “I’m useless at this.”

Much picks up the mangled piece of meat and dangles it in front of me. “Just how did you two manage at Locksley?” Then quickly, “No. Don’t answer that.”

“I am sorry,” I say.

“I know you are.”

I watch as he expertly removes meat from bone, wondering what I might do or say to make up for his disappointment in me.

“When things sort themselves out,” I say, “you can come to Locksley and—”

“No. I’ll have my Bonchurch if it’s all the same to you.” Much slaps the dead bits of animal into the blackened pan as though there is life in them yet.

“Much, I didn’t mean—”

“No, you never do mean, do you,” he says, brandishing his knife at me. “Good old Much. He can do all the work while we’re busily examining our body parts. And, yes, that is a euphemism.”

“You know I didn’t mean it like that.”

“What’s all this then?” Allan runs a little circuit along Much’s wood-scraped tracks. “Aww, look,” he says with a grin. “Little paths. Much’ll be laying carpets next. Who’s this in honour of, then? Doesn’t Guy like getting his boots all snowy?”

“You’ll be the one covered in snow if you don’t watch your mouth,” Guy says.

He snatches his gloves from his belt and then walks around for a bit, as though readjusting his leathers after having slept in them all night, unaware that he’s tracking one of Much’s laughable little paths.

I watch the way his leather breeches crease and un-crease as he walks and I think of our legs, entangled in the bed, his cold feet in between my warm ones. I missed him last night.

Suitably stretched, he comes to a standstill.

“Did you sleep all right?” I ask.

Guy shakes his head. “No. I was cold. Is there any water to wash in?”

Allan indicates the water barrel. “Over there.”

Guy goes over and raps the top of the water with his gloved knuckles. “Very funny.”

“If you smash the ice, there’ll be water underneath,” Allan tells him.

“How do you live like this?” Guy says.

“ _You_ ,” Much says, waving a wooden spoon at Guy, “are the reason we live like this. If it wasn’t for you and that vile sheriff . . . and no, don’t stop me for talking ill of the dead because him I’d happily dig up and kill all over again. If I could dig up the sea of course, which I can’t, then . . . then. . .” Much looks sheepishly in my direction. “Er . . . what was the question?”

I flick a glance at Guy and catch an unmistakeable smile tugging at his lips.

“The question, Much,” I say, “is what’s for breakfast?”

Much’s eyes widen. “Bugger!” Frantically, he plucks the pieces of burning meat from the pan.

Allan laughs. “No good trying to disguise it by burning it, Much. We all know it’s squirrel.”

Guy looks worryingly at the scorched meat.

“If you don’t fancy it, Guy,” Allan says, a mischievous glint in his eye, “you could always go pick yourself a few berries.”

“Charcoal it is, then,” Guy says.

I could clap. He’s realised that a humorous remark will earn him favour with the gang far quicker than by snarling at them and waving his sword about.

~

The morning meal over, it is time to make plans. Little John ate alone, but joins us now.

“So,” Allan says. “What’s the plan?”

“We need to know what’s going on in the castle,” I say. “And that means finding a way in.”

“Can’t be done, Robin. I’ve been round that thing several times and, discounting catapulting ourselves over the top, I say there’s no way in.”

“Are all of our old entry points blocked?”

“Yep,” Allan says. “Every last one. I checked.”

“There has to be a way in.”

“Not this time. I’ve seen it with me own eyes. Locked up, guarded, reinforced. The place is as tight as a drum.”

“There’s a tunnel,” Guy says.

“A what?” I ask. I’d been thinking about how long it would take to build a man-sized catapult.

“Pull the other one,” Allan says. “Next, you’ll be telling us there’s a ladder leaning against the north wall with a sign saying this way to the castle.”

“I’m telling you, there’s a tunnel.”

“How do you know?” I ask.

“Because I built it.”

“You?” Allan says.

“Not me personally. Some hired men.”

“And where are these men now?” I ask.

“Under the tunnel.”

We all know what Guy means because he’s the one who said it. This is what I’ve been dreading. Knowing about his crimes doesn’t seem to matter any more, as long as we don’t speak of them. But bringing them here, into the camp, makes them real, and what’s more, makes my relationship with Guy seem all the more twisted and unbelievable.

Ignoring John’s dark scowl, I say, “Tell us about it.”

Guy says, “The sheriff used to obsess about being held captive in his own castle, should everything fall apart, so he built himself an escape route, a tunnel. The diggers were silenced – I made sure of that – so no one else knows about it.”

“How do we get into this tunnel?” I ask.

“It starts in a derelict churchyard outside the west gate and it leads directly to the heart of the castle.”

I turn to the gang. “That’s our way in, lads.”

“No,” John says. “It’ll be a trap.”

“It’s not a trap,” Guy says, incensed that John is calling him a liar.

“Robin, we can’t just—”

“Enough, John. I trust Guy. And you have to trust me. I’ll go down the tunnel. Tomorrow. Find out—”

“No,” Guy says. “It has to be me.”

“Why you?”

“Because I know the tunnel and I know my way around at the other end. Also, if they catch me, there’s a chance I can get away with it. I can tell them I was only with you the other day because I’ve been trying to get close to you, to find out the location of your camp. I’ll say that I pretended to change allegiance after I fell out of favour with Vaisey. I’ll tell them that you have a hoard stashed in the forest: stolen tax monies. Prince John will surely not want to miss the opportunity to raid Robin Hood’s lair.”

I can see a hundred and one holes in his story but, right now, I can’t think of an argument against the idea.

“I’m coming with you,” I tell him.

“No. If Prince John catches you, you’ll hang. You know that. And if I do get caught, and they don’t swallow my story, I’d rather have you on the outside so you can come and rescue me.”

“And what if I can’t get in? You heard what Allan said.”

“You’ve always managed before.”

“That’s because we only ever had the sheriff’s bunch of incompetent guards between us and what we wanted.”

Guy smiles, clearly amused.

“What?”

“They weren’t very good were they,” he says. “You know, I suspect they often messed up on purpose. None of them could stand the sheriff.”

“But you did,” John says.

“I did what was necessary. I didn’t have a choice.”

“Pah!”

“Let it alone, John,” I tell him.

I don’t want John and Guy at each other’s throats again. John might do more than gash Guy’s forehead next time and I would like to get through this day without spilling any more blood.

“He was all I had,” Guy says.

Something Marian once said about Guy being devoid of love flits through my head. I can’t remember the exact words, but I know I pooh-poohed the idea at the time. Now I wonder whether she was right, that Guy’s lack of family – other than a sister who hated him – along with a lack of friends was partly the reason he ended up serving under Vaisey.

“Rubbish,” John retorts.

Turning his back on us all, Guy strides towards the trees, kicking over Much’s little piles of snow as he does so. I start after him, but John puts a heavy hand on my shoulder, halting me.

“I want to show you something,” he says.

“Can’t it wait?”

“No. It cannot. Come with me.”

John lets go of me and strides away, in the opposite direction to Guy. Reluctantly, I follow.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“You’ll see,” is all John will say.

I ask a couple more times, but John remains tight-lipped. I wonder if he is about to show me evidence of Guy’s crimes: a penniless family, a starving child, a boarded up mill.

We reach a clearing. Ahead is a slope we’re all familiar with: it leads to the cave where we used to spend our winters before Will built us a more permanent home. Is this where John has been living? Is this what he wants to show me?

“Go in,” John says, waving me ahead of him.

What’s going on? Is this a trap, men lying in wait to dispose of me? Surely not.

I stop at the cave’s entrance, listening. John jabs me in the back with his staff, forcing me forwards. With a feeling of sick certainty, I realise what this is about.

“This isn’t fair,” I say.

“If I could whisk you to the Holy Land, make you stand by her graveside, believe you me, Robin, I would,” John says. “This,” – he gives me another shove – “is the only way I can think of drumming home the wrongness of what you are doing with him.”

It is nearly dark in the cave, but I do not need to see to remember what took place here: Much complaining about bats, Djaq gathering her medicines, Will lighting a fire and Marian lying on a rocky ledge, bleeding and in pain.

“You thought she died that day because of him,” John says.

“Guy didn’t know the Night Watchman was Marian,” I tell him.

“That’s not the point. You loved her. You took to killing again because of her, because of what he did.”

If John thinks this will force me to break off my relationship with Guy, he is wrong.

“Yes,” I say. “I did love her, and now I—”

I clamp my mouth, stunned by my near admission.

“ _Why,_ Robin? Just tell me why.”

“No. It’s personal. It’s between Guy and me and it’s none of your business.”

“You made it our business when you stood in the camp holding his hand.”

“That was a mistake. I should not have told you.”

“You’re right,” John says. “It was a mistake. It _is_ a mistake. And we would have found out, you know. You can’t keep this sort of thing a secret forever.”

“You’re not going to tell—”

“Hells bells! What do you take me for? Of course I won’t tell anyone. Do you think I want people, our people, your people, to know I’m happy to associate with the likes of you two?”

“I understand how you feel,” I say. “And I’m not going to try to change your mind on that score. But while we still have the poor to feed, can you not at least put your loathing aside. If not for me, then for Marian. England and its people meant everything to her. Hate me if you must. Curse my name from the rooftops if we win the day if it makes you feel any better. But please tell me you’ll stay and help us make a difference. The gang needs you. I need you.”

“And him?”

“Yes. I need him, too.”

Turning away from John, I walk to the rocky ledge, kneel down and lay my hands on the cool, unforgiving stone. I think of Marian, cold and alone under the hot desert sand, and I think of Guy – the Guy of my nightmare – bloodied and broken.

“Robin?”

“Go away,” I tell John. “Leave me alone.”

“No. We need to settle this.”

“Then smack me round the head with that staff of yours if you want to hurt me because I’m not giving him up. Not for you. Not for anyone.”

John makes a small sound as if he is about to say more and then I hear the crunch of his oversized boots as he makes his way out of the cave.

I run my hands over the ledge’s rocky contours, as though I might find her lingering warmth, wondering when it was that she stopped talking to me. I know the answer, of course. It was the day Guy rammed me up against the front door at Locksley, the day I wanted him so badly I’d have sold my soul to the Devil to satisfy my despicable want. My ring bumps and scrapes on the rock’s rough surface.

“Marian?” I whisper, and then louder, “Marian?”

No answer. No wisp of that ethereal thread linking my world to hers. I rest my head on my arms. There is no sheriff calling for me this time, halting my tears, denying me my grief.

~

Time has passed. The weak winter sun has given way to an overcast afternoon and the threat of rain.

John is standing in the cave’s entrance, holding my bow. A part of me is glad he chose not to abandon me, but the other part, the private part, wishes I were alone.

“Waiting to have another go at me,” I say, half hoping he’ll rise to the venom in my tone and punch me.

John hands me my bow. “Today is a good day . . . to say I’m sorry. I thought you wanted him for nothing more than . . . well I don’t have to spell it out, do I. Now I see that there’s more to it than that, though I’m damned if I can understand what it is. But if Much and Allan are willing to accept you two, then I will accept it too.

“However,” he says. “Don’t think I’m going to start going soppy on the pair of you because I’m not. I don’t like him and I don’t want him in the camp. But if he’s willing to help us, and as long as he keeps out of my way, then I’m willing to make an effort. For Marian and for you.”

“That’s all I’m asking,” I say.

“Right,” John says. “How about we put that bow of yours to good use and catch us some supper before night falls. Squirrel I can do without tonight.”

He pats my shoulder and then starts down the slope. I follow.

~

When we get back, a deer slung across John’s shoulders, there are walls of snow all around the periphery of the camp.

“Fortifications,” Guy says in answer to my puzzled frown.

There’s a red glow to his cheeks and he’s tied his hair back with a length of twine. I notice Much’s face is wet, as is the rest of him.

“What happened?” I ask.

Much glances at Guy. “Er . . . would you believe we had a snowball fight.”

“Yeah,” Allan says. “Guy might not be so good at catching outlaws, but he’s got a blinding over-arm on him.”

Guy shrugs. “What can I say.”

He looks as though he’s been enjoying himself. They all do.

John drops the deer at Much’s feet. “Supper.”

“What was it you wanted to show Robin?” Much asks.

John gives me a pleading look.

“He wanted to show me what a big heart he’s got,” I tell Much.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“It means we’re eating supper together tonight, that’s what it means.”

Much wrinkles his brow, but before he can ask any more questions, Allan says, “See if you can manage not to wrestle with the deer this time, muscle man.”

It’s a reference to the time Much and Rowena went hunting and Much returned with a deer upon his shoulders only to end up on the ground, the dead deer on top of him.

“Ha, ha, very funny,” Much says.

“I’ll tell you about it later,” I tell a perplexed-looking Guy.

I regard my friends and my lover in turn and a warm happiness floods through me. It is only as I am heading for bed that a shadow falls over that happiness. Tomorrow, Guy is going to attempt to break into the castle by way of Vaisey’s escape route. Tomorrow, he is going to risk his life and all because he is living with me.

 


	15. Advance Party

Guy thinks leaving the gang behind is a mistake, but I assure him that all will be well. No one in their right mind would be making their way through the forest in such bone-chilling cold, with snow well above ankle height, and the two of us should be able to shift the heavy stone concealing the tunnel’s churchyard entrance.

“Just remember,” I tell him. “In and out. No heroics.”

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ll leave the heroics to you.”

“And Guy?”

“What?”

“If you get caught . . .”

“I know. Don’t reveal the camp’s location, no matter what.”

“No. I was going to say – lie.”

With a full moon and a cloudless sky, we have no need of a flame. I think about yesterday, on returning to the camp with John and finding a flushed and exuberant Guy and those ridiculous snow fortifications that he, Much and Allan had built. I chuckle and Guy stops walking.

“What is it?” he asks.

“You,” I say. “Playing snowballs with Allan and Much.”

“What of it?”

“I don’t know. It’s just so . . . so, un-Guy.”

He turns to me, smiles. “Well, it made a change from trying to stick them with swords or arrows.”

He shakes his head and turns away, perhaps thinking he has said the wrong thing. I think we will always be saying the wrong thing to each other and we’d better start getting used to it.

“I just wanted to say thank you, for the snow thing, for making an effort.”

“They’re your friends,” he says.

“Yes, they are. And they mean a lot to me. _You_ mean a lot to me.”

“How about a quick breather?” he says.

I meet his eyes and understand what he is hinting at. I nod. We have only been walking a short while.

As he wraps his powerful arms around me, I think of Marian: her lips yielding, where his are insistent, her arms soft, where his are capturing and her tongue hesitant rather than searching. And me, my want for her a slow burning candle, rather than this instant flash of need he provokes in me.

“Well, well, well, Huntingdon. And the king always said you never had it in you.”

My tongue slides from Guy’s mouth, my hands from around his neck.

Guy pushes me away and unsheathes his sword while I raise my bow and swiftly nock an arrow.

“Who’s there?” I ask.

“Show yourself,” Guy demands.

The man laughs.

I point my arrow towards a snow-covered thicket, angry that my carelessness means someone has caught us out.

“This is taking consorting with the enemy a bit far, isn’t it?” the man says.

I silently motion Guy forwards.

Side by side, we approach the man’s hiding place. When we are no more than half a dozen sword lengths away, a helmeted figure slips from behind the thicket. I know immediately it is not one of Prince John’s men; the clothes are all wrong.

“Who are you?” I ask. I aim my arrow at his mailed chest.

“Oh, come, come, Huntingdon,” the man scolds affably. “Surely you have not forgotten your old friend?”

“Christophe?”

Now I see it, a crusader’s uniform, all but concealed by a heavy cloak.

“You know this man?” Guy asks me.

“He bloody well ought to,” Christophe says. “We fought alongside one another for nigh on three years.”

“He is right,” I tell Guy. “I served with Christophe in the king’s private guard.”

I lower my bow and Guy sheathes his sword.

“What are you doing here?” I ask. “In Sherwood, in the middle of the night? In fact, what are you even doing in England? I thought—”

“I could ask you the same question, Huntingdon, although to be honest the king did say I ought to find you lurking in these blasted woods. Didn’t say you’d have your tongue searching out another man’s vocal cords though.”

Christophe removes his helmet. His flat brown hair is a little longer and a few shades lighter than I remember, but the thin moustache still perches on his upper lip and the small half-moon scar above his right eyebrow still stands out whitely on his swarthy skin.

“Are you alone?” I ask.

“What!” Christophe snorts. “Have you lost your common sense as well as your sense of morality?” He waves an arm and seven helmeted figures emerge from behind the thicket. “It’s all right,” Christophe tells his men. “This is Robin of Locksley, the Earl of Huntingdon. And the other blackguard, if I’m not mistaken, is Guy of Gisborne.”

“How do you—”

Christophe cuts Guy off and says, “I see you still have a penchant for black leather.”

“What?”

Guy glances at me and I shrug. As far as I know, Christophe has never met Guy.

“I saw you, Gisborne,” Christophe says. “After you tried to kill the king, you and that sorry excuse for a sheriff. I was one of the guards that King Richard sent to chase after you. Would have had you too if it hadn’t been for some incompetent boatman at the port.” Christophe regards me. “The king said her death had hit you hard, Locksley, but turning traitor, well . . .”

Christophe clicks his fingers and his men relieve Guy of his sword and dagger and me of my scimitar and bow. At Christophe’s command, the men encircle us. I am uneasy.

“I’ve never been anything but loyal to the Crown,” I say. “But what about you? Why are you not in the Holy Land, protecting the king?”

Again, Christophe snorts. “Dear me, you really are in the wilderness here, aren’t you.”

“Explain,” I demand. There has always been something I don’t like about Christophe. Slimy is the word that comes to mind.

“King Richard is here, in England. We made land a couple of weeks back. The first thing he did was to send me ahead to look for you. I tried Locksley first, but the villagers said you’d disappeared. I’ve been trailing round these damn woods for the best part of two days looking for you.”

“Well, you’ve found me. Now tell me what’s going on.”

“This,” Christophe says, sweeping his arm towards his men, “is the king’s advance party.”

“Advance party?”

“Yes. Richard wanted a small troop to precede his army. Find out if the situation in Nottingham is as he has been led to believe.”

“What situation?”

“That Prince John’s supporters have occupied the castle.”

It seems Allan had been right about something untoward going on in Nottingham’s great fortress.

“So, the king has come home to sort his brother out?”

“He’ll have a bit of a job,” Christophe says. “Prince John’s not at the castle any more. He’s in France, been there for weeks apparently. The weasel doesn’t have the courage to face Richard himself. He’s getting others to do his dirty work.”

“The Black Knights?”

“Is that what they call themselves? Well, no matter. Richard plans to attack the castle, take it back.”

“He’s coming here, to Nottingham?”

I glance at Guy. He knows what this might mean, at least as far as he is concerned.

“Yes. All being well, he should arrive tomorrow, which is why he wanted me to find you. He wants to use Locksley as a base, at least to begin with. But Christ, if he catches you with Gisborne, he’ll—”

“He’s not going to catch me. And furthermore, you’re not going to tell him what you’ve just seen.”

“Oh no?”

I notice all of the crusaders are heavily armed and that several have hands readied upon their weapons.

“Listen, Huntingdon. Your sordid activities are of no concern to me. But I’m duty bound to tell the king that the man who tried to kill him in Acre is right here, in Nottingham.”

“And so you can,” I say. “Although I would prefer to tell Richard myself.”

Guy places a hand on my arm. “Robin?”

“I told you, Guy, I will speak for you. The king trusts me.” I shift uncomfortably, recalling the gang’s and my near crucifixion in the desert. “I will make Richard see reason,” I say, rather more harshly than I intend. Again, I am uncomfortable, recalling my numerous meetings with King Richard and all that they entailed.

All too often, these private tête-à-têtes had no obvious purpose, other than for Richard to ply me with both his gripes and more wine than was good for me. In fact, there were times I wondered whether Richard’s constant demands to pick the brains of his best lieutenant belied his real intent.

The night before Guy’s attack on the king, Richard had been particularly agitated, and when I said something out of turn, he rounded on me quite viciously. He immediately begged my pardon, something I’d rarely, if ever, known him to do with anyone – Richard wasn’t big on admitting he was wrong. That was the first time one of his friendly hugs felt suspiciously like something else and I remember hastily making excuses about being tired and needing to prepare for the coming day and bidding him goodnight.

On returning to my tent, I paced and fretted, desperately trying to work out what I would do if Richard made such demands of me. By that time, I shamefully knew that I was one step away from knocking on a male prostitute’s door in Sinners’ Alley. But that would have meant doing it with a stranger, someone who meant nothing to me. This was the king. A man I had long revered. My bloody actions in the Holy Land proved I would do whatever he asked of me, but I could not contemplate bedding him. The idea was preposterous.

As it was, I never had to deal with it. The attack happened, Guy stabbed me, the king moved on and I returned to England, my only obligation to Richard to see his lands and chattels well until his return from the Holy Land.

Now, King Richard is here, ready and wanting to claim everything that is rightfully his and, quite possibly, me as well.

“The king trusts you,” Christophe says. “How can you say that when you’re standing next to this traitor.”

“Guy is with me, with us. He is one of us now and I will make sure King Richard knows it.”

“With us? In us, don’t you mean? For Christ’s sake, Huntingdon. You’re in the breeches of the man who tried to kill the King of England. I think Richard will want to know something about that.”

“My personal life is of no concern to the king.”

“Your personal life is of every concern to Richard if you’re fucking the bastard who tried to murder him.”

Christophe gives a contemptuous little laugh; he is clearly enjoying himself. I remember this side to him, this sadistic streak of his. I remember the times when he committed acts that could easily have been avoided and I remember how often Richard made excuses for him.

_This is war, Robin. Show mercy and we are done for._

“The king will listen to me,” I say.

My bow is leaning against a tree, out of reach.

“The king will listen to me,” Christophe mimics. “Yes, well, it always was about you, wasn’t it? Until you left and it became my turn to shine. Now Richard wants you back, by his side. His best archer. Best archer be damned. Best cock-lover more like.”

“You bastard!” Guy roars. His hand dives for the small dagger he keeps in the upper part of his right boot.

“Guy, don’t,” I warn.

Christophe smirks and lashes out with his heavy boot, knocking Guy’s arm away. Two guards hold Guy while Christophe retrieves the hidden dagger.

Guy glares at me, even though he knows it would have been nothing more than an empty gesture of defiance. We are severely outnumbered.

Forgetting that I have just chastised Guy for rising to Christophe’s taunts, I judge the distance to my bow and dart between the two nearest crusaders.

It is a gesture as futile as Guy’s and, before I have even touched my precious weapon, I find myself down in the snow with at least three blades pressed to my back.

“Tut, tut, Huntingdon,” Christophe says. “ You should know better than to fight against such odds.”

“I don’t believe in odds,” I say. “You should know that.”

“Yes, well,” he says. “You can keep your sordid little secret. I very much doubt the king will believe me in any case. You always were too good to be true.” Christophe barks a command and two of his men drag me to my feet. “He, however,” – Christophe points at Guy – “deserves everything he’s got coming to him.”

Christophe nods and two crusaders grab Guy’s arms.

“Get your bloody hands off me!”

A third crusader holds a sword to Guy’s chest.

“Let him go, Christophe,” I demand.

“Or what?” he says. “You’re hardly in a position to bargain.”

“Christophe. For God’s sake, use your head. What will the king say if he finds out you’ve taken the law into your own hands.”

“The law? Who says anything about the law? Oh, no, no, no, no, no.”

There is a dangerous edge to Christophe’s voice. His men shuffle in the snow, uneasy.

“Please,” I say. “Let the king be the judge of what’s to be done with Gisborne.”

Christophe spits. “The king has never been able to judge where you’re concerned. His blue-eyed boy. The great Robin of Locksley, who can do no wrong in Richard’s eyes. And me. Always loyal, serving the king, nothing too small. Yet overlooked repeatedly. I bent over backwards – hell, forwards mostly – more times than I can remember because you wouldn’t. And still it won me no favours. Because it was you, always you, he wanted. Probably fantasised about you when he was laying into me. And now look at you. Fucking this traitorous bastard. Gives you a thrill does it. A perverse kick, a—”

I yank against the men holding me and my reward is a sharp jab between my shoulder blades from what felt like a sword’s hilt.

Christophe approaches one of the men holding Guy, says something I cannot hear. The man does not move and Christophe snarls and raises an arm as though to strike the insubordinate crusader, then thinks better of it and slaps Guy’s face instead, splitting his lip.

Guy spits at Christophe and receives a hefty smack to the jaw.

Christophe growls at his men and another crusader comes forward, somewhat reluctantly I think. At Christophe’s insistence, he lifts Guy’s legs and removes Guy’s boots and stockings. Christophe leans in and whispers something in the crusader’s ear. The man nods and starts unbuckling Guy’s belt.

“No!” Guy yells, struggling to free himself from his tormentors’ clutches.

“Christophe, don’t,” I implore.

Once more, I find myself face down in the snow. Someone pulls my arms behind my back and winds a rope around my wrists, tying it off with a sharp tug. I am tethered and helpless.

I spit snow and lift my head in time to see Guy ineffectually kicking out with his bare feet and receiving a punch in the stomach that has him doubling over.

I turn my head. My bow and quiver are no longer in sight. Neither is my scimitar. I catch a movement behind Guy. Three further crusaders, carrying flaming torches, approach. At Christophe’s beckoning, they move closer to the brutish scene unfolding in the moonlit forest. Beyond the thick stand of trees, I hear the soft whinny of a horse.

Guy is yanked upright. More of his clothes come off, are flung away. Whenever he resists, he is kicked or punched. There is blood seeping from the corner of his mouth.

“Richard will hear of this,” I say.

Christophe simply laughs at my threat. He forces Guy onto his knees. “Like he will care what happens to this piece of scum.” He pushes Guy backwards into the snow. “So, who wants him, eh?” Christophe eyes his men, his boot firmly planted on Guy’s naked chest.

The men’s raucous laughter turns to nervous titters. Christophe has gone too far. These men of the king did not bargain on this, but their leader, whose commands they must follow, hates me, if for no reason other than I always held the king’s favour. He has waited years to find a way to hurt me and now he has.

“No one, eh? Well, I’d do the honours, but not now I know that Huntingdon has been inside him. Who knows what disease I might catch. Hell, I might end up becoming a do-gooder, feeding the poor and making a name for myself among the great unwashed.”

Christophe is out of control and his men know it. He flicks his wrist and I see the steel glint of a knife in the torches’ light.

“If you deny King Richard a court,” I say, “he will kill you. I will kill you.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Christophe says. The king will have his chance to enjoy his little victory, and I will be there to see this piece of dirt hanged, drawn and quartered, but I suspect you won’t, so I thought I’d give you a taste of what is to come.”

Christophe nods at his men and approaches Guy. I can almost see him licking his lips. At a wordless signal, two of the crusaders part Guy’s legs. Guy twists his head to look at me, imploring, terrified.

“Christophe. Think what you’re doing. Think of your good standing, your duty.”

I may not be able to appeal to the man, but perhaps the soldier in him will listen.

“I know my duty, Huntingdon.” Christophe brandishes the knife at Guy. “The question is, do you know yours?”

He hovers over Guy. Guy closes his eyes and twists his head to the side steeling himself for the ordeal he knows he has no way of escaping.

“Robin!”

“Master!”

There is an agonised cry – Guy. And a blasphemous curse – Christophe.

John, Allan and Much burst into the clearing, weapons raised.

“Are the others behind you?” I shout, nodding vigorously at Allan.

“Right behind us,” Allan hollers, picking up on my cue.

“But we haven’t got—”

John sees the danger and grabs Much by the neck.

In the face of unknown odds, the soldier in Christophe decides to make a prudent retreat. He waves at his men and those holding Guy shove him head first into the snow.

“Go! Go!” Christophe yells.

With a great kicking of snow, the crusaders dash for the trees. Moments later, I hear the jangle of horses’ bits, agitated whinnies and the thwack of spur on flank.

“Bloody hell!” Allan exclaims, staring wide-eyed at Guy.

“Untie me, quickly,” I demand.

John picks up Guy’s discarded dagger and slashes at the ropes binding my wrists. Allan and Much turn this way and that, weapons poised. No one will go to Guy.

“For God’s sake!” I exclaim.

Guy is on all fours, his knees, hands and wrists buried beneath the snow. He is breathing heavily, but does not appear to be badly hurt, though numerous bruises will soon bloom on his skin and it’s quite likely he has a broken rib or two.

“Guy, look at me. You’re all right.”

Trembling violently, he shakes his head, unable or unwilling to move.

“It’s all right. They’ve gone.” I grip his upper arms. “Trust me.” To the gang I say, “Get his clothes.”

Then I see it, like blots of red ink, turning the snow pink. At my insistence, Guy sits back on his heels. There is a slash on his upper thigh – Christophe’s knife has done damage after all – though the cut is reasonably shallow by the looks of it.

I hastily untie the black neck scarf Guy gave me and start winding it around his leg in attempt to stop the bleeding.

“Robin. Here.”

John hands me Guy’s braies and breeches, Allan his shirt and doublet. Much has found Guy’s belt and boots. Having duly delivered the clothing, the gang back away from a scene I am sure they would rather not have to witness.

“You need to get dressed,” I tell Guy. “You’re freezing.”

He makes no move to stand.

“Guy. Get up. In case they come back.”

At my solemn warning, he makes a harsh noise, halfway between a choke and a sob, hugging the bundle of cold black leathers to his chest. Unsteadily, he comes to his feet and starts to dress. It takes him forever because his hands are numb and because he is in tears.

I am beyond rage.

“Robin,” John says, lightly touching my arm. “You need to take him to the camp, make him warm.”

“Him is Guy,” I say heatedly. “I am taking Guy to Locksley.”

“Then we will come with you. You can’t take the chance that Prince John’s guards will not come after you.”

“It wasn’t Prince John’s men.”

“Then who was—”

“Not now, John, all right.”

John nods. “When you’re ready.” He edges away.

Guy leans on my shoulder and pulls on his boots.

“Where’s my sword?” he says. “I need my bloody sword.”

“We will find it,” I assure him. “But it’s more important to get you warm first and to see to that leg.” I start to thread Guy’s belt through the top of his leathers.

“I can do it,” he snaps.

“I’m sorry. I was only trying to help.”

Guy wipes his face, takes a steadying breath. “No. I’m sorry. It’s not you I’m angry with.”

His hands are too numb with cold to work the buckle and, fresh tears filling his eyes, he quietly asks me help him.

“Here you go.” Allan hands Guy his scabbard and sword.

“I’m going to kill that bastard,” Guy says, strapping on his weapon.

“Not if I get him first,” I say.

“No.” Guy grips my wrist. “It’s too late for me, another killing, but not you. I can’t let you—”

“Don’t talk like that. It’s never too late, you hear me.”

I don’t care that the gang are watching. I don’t care about anything other than the fact that Guy is here, with me, alive. Not slashed to ribbons in the snow, not staring sightless at the night sky, not crushed and broken on the castle courtyard.

I lean forwards and kiss him, gently, tasting the blood from his split lip. A sob escapes his mouth and I wrap my arms around him.

“Let’s get out of this damned forest,” he says.

I cannot agree with him more.

 


	16. Confession

“This is it! The king is here . . . well, nearly here. And not some dressed up impostor, but the real King Richard.” Much is all but jumping up and down in uncontained excitement. “Just think. By this time tomorrow . . . or maybe today because it’s very dark so it must be late, maybe later than midnight, the king—”

“Much,” John says, low and threatening.

“What?”

“Pipe down.”

John inclines his head at Guy, who I have left walking some way ahead of us.

“Sorry,” Much says. “I didn’t mean . . . but just think of it, the king, the actual king. Robin will get his lands and title back, and we’ll get our pardons, and—”

_Every facile thought._ I bite my tongue; I have hurt my friend enough these past few weeks.

“Much!” Allan snaps.

“What?”

“Shut the hell up.”

“But this is the news we’ve been waiting for. We should be celebrating. We should—”

“And so we shall, Much,” I say. “But not until after I have met with Richard. Not until after I have spoken for all of you. And for Guy.”

“Sorry,” he says, flicking his eyes in Guy’s direction. “I know I sometimes let my mouth get ahead of my brain, but . . .”

“Yeah, pity one never catches up with the other,” Allan mumbles.

“It’s all right,” I tell Much. “I know how much this means to you, to all of you.”

I have told the gang about Richard’s imminent arrival in Nottingham. I have also told them about Christophe and his advance party, although I have left out the part about his personal relationship with our sovereign. Much says he’s not surprised, that he always thought Christophe walked a fine line between decent and despicable.

I am watching my brutalised lover as he slogs through the snow.

“I’m going to speak to Richard, John. I have to make him understand that Guy won’t . . . that he isn’t . . .”

Noticing my ill-concealed misery, John lays a kindly hand on my shoulder. “All in good time, Robin. First, we must get you safely back to Locksley so you can tend to your wounds.”

“I thought they were going to kill him.”

“I know,” John says.

“I can’t be without him, not now.”

“I know that, too.” John gives my shoulder a squeeze. “Go walk with him. We’ll take the lead to check all is safe.”

Smiling my thanks, I take off after Guy.

~

The trudge to Locksley seems to take forever. Quiet and watchful, the gang walks several paces in front of us, allowing Guy and me a modicum of privacy, even though there is no need for it. Guy remains tight-lipped for the entire journey; he clearly doesn’t want to discuss what happened with Christophe and his men until we are behind closed doors, and perhaps not even then.

On reaching the house, it does not take me long to convince my friends that we would prefer to be left alone, at least for tonight. At this, Much gives me a quick and slightly awkward hug and then the three men begin the long walk back to the camp, doubtless retracing the footsteps we have just made and probably walking with the same degree of solemnity and silence: what happened to Guy and me hardly makes for light banter.

I watch until my friends are out of sight and then close and latch the door. The main hall is empty, Guy having already gone upstairs. I consider looking for something to eat, lighting a fire even, but, in truth, I know these are nothing more than excuses, that I am simply putting off the moment when I must deal with Guy and what just happened in the forest.

I track his snowy boot-prints up the staircase and push past the curtain into our bedchamber.

He is sitting on the edge of the bed. The window shutters are open and I’m surprised there aren’t icicles hanging from the ceiling. I pull the shutters closed, silently cursing the fact I have yet to mend the broken board and, for the first time, regretting not having a house servant, other than the ever-dutiful Elisabeth, who continues to stock our larder.

While I am busying myself, Guy simply sits, head bowed, doubtless waiting for me to minister to him. However, the moment I crouch in front of him, with a bowl of water and a clean piece of cloth, he puts a restraining hand on my arm and I see he is biting back tears.

I put the bowl and cloth aside.

“It’s all right,” I say, completely at a loss.

“No,” he says. “It is not.”

His hands whip up and clutch a fistful of my shirt and I know there is more to this than what happened with Christophe.

“What is it?” I ask.

Guy sucks in a breath and then exhales, his eyes fixed on my chest. “There were four of them.”

“Four of who?”

“No.” He shakes his head and lets go of my shirt, thrusting his hands between his thighs, as though afraid they might do some damage.

“Four of who?” I repeat.

Guy simply stares at his lap, his long hair curtaining his face.

I slip my hands between his legs in the hope that our familiar handholding might encourage him to tell me whatever it is that is troubling him.

“Tell me,” I say. Because I want to know, because I believe it is important, a piece of the puzzle that is Guy of Gisborne.

Guy continues to stare at his lap, at our buried hands. I wait patiently and, in due course, he speaks.

“They caught me, you see.” His head remains bowed. “Caught me stealing. But it was the only way. Isabella and I had nowhere to live, and we were hungry, and she didn’t even have a winter’s cloak.”

I realise he is talking of his younger sister, and I presume he means when they went back to France, after his mother and father died in the fire.

“Who caught you?” I ask.

“I didn’t know the place I tried to rob or what their vulgar talk meant. I just wanted to get them off me. I knew how to fight; even managed to give one of them a bloody nose. But they were too strong, and I was weak from hunger. They had me cornered and . . .”

“Go on,” I say.

“No.” Guy lifts his head and I let go of his hands so he can push back the strands of hair covering his face. He is trying very hard not to cry and, when I lean in to give him a gentle kiss, he does.

I realise I have pushed too far. Sharing intimacies of the flesh does not give me the right to know everything there is to know about my lover. God knows, I keep enough secrets of my own.

“It’s all right,” I say. “You don’t have to tell me, not if you don’t want to.”

“I do want to. I carry too many burdens and this one I have carried more years than I care to remember.”

I do not know how long his confession will be, but my knees are hurting from kneeling, so I pull up the wooden chair that sits next to the bed and sit, waiting for him to continue.

“There was a young man,” he says. “I don’t know where he came from, but when he saw what was going on he tried to help me. He was good with his fists, but the brutes fought him off and flung him through the window, into the street.”

“What were they doing to you?”

“They were taking turns to ram their filthy cocks up my backside.”

His tear-shot eyes lock onto mine, and I recall the two of us, downstairs, and the flash of fear in his eyes just before he turned and faced the fireside rug. _So, not Vaisey after all._

“When it was over,” he continues, “they left me, naked and bleeding. At first, I was too ashamed to go back to Isabella. And when I did return, empty-handed, she spat at me and said I was a useless, worthless piece of nothing. I’ve never been so frightened in my life.”

I think of Christophe, egging the crusaders on, his heavy boot grinding into Guy’s bare chest, pressing him into the icy snow.

“And yet you want this,” I say, resting my hand on his leathered thigh. “You want to be with me, like this. I don’t understand.”

“You’re not like them.”

“Then what am I like?”

He leans in, kisses me. It is a desperate kiss, and it hides a truth.

“There’s more,” I say. “Tell me.”

Eyes again fixed on my chest, Guy says, “A few days later, armed with a stolen sword, I went back. I wanted revenge. The young man who’d tried to fight those men off me saw me and asked me what I was up to. I told him and he said he would help me, but only if I agreed that we would not kill anyone. I agreed. My attackers were not there, but their coin was, enough for me to buy Isabella that winter’s cloak and a lot more besides. He taught me how to survive that winter, and not only that, but how to flourish as well. He also taught me that what those men did to me didn’t have to be like that.” He gives me a meaningful look. “I ended it, of course, after Isabella found out. She threatened to drug me in my sleep and cut off my manhood if I continued. We came back to England and I buried it. It became just another one of my many sins. Another one I hoped Marian would wash away.”

“I still don’t understand why you would want to lie with me, or with anyone, after those men hurt you like that?”

Guy sighs and takes hold of my ringed hand. “I’m not sure I can explain. I hated what they did to me, would gladly have run them all through, and yet . . . there was a part of me that didn’t dislike it. I know that sounds sick.”

I think of those battle-weary evenings in the Holy Land, sitting around wine-stained tables, of the knights and their debauched tales of men with men and of my own unholy desires.

“There’s something else, isn’t there,” I say. “Something that concerns me?”

Guy smiles to himself. “When you swaggered into Locksley with your bow slung across your shoulders, acting as if you didn’t have a care in the world. When you said to the sheriff that if you told him where you were, could you claim the twenty pounds reward money, you reminded me of him. You had that same cocky air about you, as if nothing could touch you, as if . . .”

“Arrows could bounce off me,” I suggest.

“Exactly.”

“Is that when you knew you wanted me?”

“No. I’d put all that behind me. And besides, there was too much at stake. I wanted power, money, lands, and I wasn’t prepared to let anything get in the way of that. And then, of course, there was Marian.”

“So, when did you change your mind?”

“In Étienne, in the barn.”

_What’s the matter, Locksley? Frightened I might jump you in the night._ Guy had been drunk, so had I. I wish we hadn’t been drunk. I wish I’d said ‘would you like to?’ I wish we had fucked there and then, in the straw, while the gang slept oblivious below us. It certainly would have saved weeks of agonising, weeks of should I, shouldn’t I?

“Is that why you went away?”

“Yes.”

“But you changed your mind, came back?”

“I had no choice. I wanted you, just as I wanted—”

I still his words with a kiss. We have always been a threesome – him, my ethereal Marian and me. But tonight I will make it just the two of us. Of course, he might have been talking about the young man, whose name I may never know.

Guy relaxes into me, his breaths warm and steady. I think he has wanted to tell me this since our first night together. Perhaps he suspected I believed the dead sheriff had sodomised him and he wanted to dispel that particular myth, or perhaps he just wanted to tell me because, as he said, it had weighed on his mind for far too long and Christophe’s attack had prompted the need to unburden himself of it.

He guides my ringed hand between his legs, tilts his head back and closes his eyes. I start to rub and watch the steady rise and fall of his chest, feel the increasing bulge in his leathers. In the distance an owl hoots and is answered, reminding me of the forest and of that snowy clearing, once pristine, now boot-churned and blood-spattered.

Reluctantly, I stop.

“What?” Guy says, opening his eyes.

“Guy, apart from the fact that there’s a little too much material involved here, I really think I should look at that leg of yours.”

“I’m sure there’s no need. After all, what’s a little blood between friends?”

“It could be more than a little. Let me take a look.” I start unbuckling his belt.

Guy grabs my wrist. “Before you perform whatever surgery you’re about to perform on me, we need to talk about tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow can wait,” I tell him.

“No!” His grip tightens. “It cannot. Both you and I know it will not go away. The king is coming here, to Locksley. I know you say you will speak for me, and I know you consider Richard to be a fair and reasonable man, but we have to face facts. Treason is a grave crime, punishable by death, and you know that I have long been prepared to face the consequences of my actions.”

I think that perhaps he is talking of Marian and not his attempts on Richard’s life.

“Guy, there’s no need—”

“No. Hear me out. I will not run and hide. I will face whatever it is I have to face and willingly. And if, by the grace of God, I am to be spared, then you know as well as I that King Richard will be making demands of you to help him win back his castle and his lands.”

“But—”

“And you also know,” Guy continues, “that I will do whatever is asked of me; not because I have suddenly pledged my undying loyalty to the king, but because I am pledging it to you.”

“Very well,” I say. “Now will you please let go of my arm before you snap it in two.”

“Sorry.”

I resume tackling his belt buckle, but he slaps my hands away.

“Guy, don’t be stupid. I need to—”

“No. Wait. What I really wanted to say is that the King of England is coming here, tomorrow, and this could be our last night together.”

“Don’t say that. Don’t even think it.”

Guy shakes his head, as though I’m not getting it. “Not everything is in your control. Not everything in life is a choice, despite whatever Marian may once have said.”

“I didn’t say—”

“Please,” he says. “Give us this night; make it count.”

I nod, unable to deny him anything after everything he’s just been through.

Guy stands and skirts around to his side of the bed. He starts to undress and I start to do likewise. He has his back to me and I can therefore appraise him openly. I notice he has a thin white scar on his lower back. I also notice he has a small brown mole on his right buttock. I imagine myself creeping up on him, wrapping my arms around his muscular body and taking him there and then. _Best cock lover._ I still have an overwhelming desire to kill Christophe.

Guy turns around and walks back to my side of the bed.

“You’re not undressed,” he says, tugging at my breeches.

“Because you’re still bleeding.” I point at the blood-soaked scarf. “Now, for God’s sake sit down and let me see to it.”

Guy sits on the edge of the bed. Kneeling in front of him, I unwind the scarf from around his thigh. I wipe away the congealed blood surrounding the cut and gently dab the cut itself. The bleeding has stopped and he waves away my suggestion of stitches.

Leaning forwards, he lightly brushes my lips with his. He is trembling and it doesn’t feel like desire. I pull away in time to see not a man ahead of me in years, but the Guy of my youth: angry, yet at the same time, vulnerable, frightened even.

“I thought I was done for,” he says, indicating his lap. “I thought—”

“Christophe will get what he deserves,” I say. “Richard will learn what kind of man he has commanding his troops.”

Guy clears his throat, straightens up and says, “You were stupid though, trying to make a grab for your bow. I know you’re good, but you could never have taken on the lot of them.”

“I’d have given it my best shot.”

“This is nothing,” Guy says gruffly. “It is my pride that is the more wounded, that is all. Let’s fuck.”

“Are you sure?” I lightly touch the purplish blotches on Guy’s chest and arms, the marks of kicks and punches he had to endure while Christophe taunted him.

He nods. “It’s fine. They didn’t hit me as hard they could have. Something tells me their hearts weren’t entirely in it. Not that I was going to let them or that bastard know that.”

“Still, your leg. The wound might open up again if you’re not careful.”

“It’s a mere scratch. The air will see to it.”

I’m sure I should argue the point further, but Guy turns away from me and lies face down on the bed, legs apart, hands clutching the sheet. I smile at the mole on his backside, a tiny brown island in a sea of pale flesh.

“Are you sure that you want to do this so soon after what—”

Guy shushes me and says, “I want you to. I _need_ you to.”

I grease my hands and insert a finger. Once Guy has settled, I insert another. A quiet moan of satisfaction rumbles into the bed sheet. However, as I am asking him to reposition himself so I can enter him more easily, Guy suddenly rears up and turns round to face me. He grabs my upper arms.

“Not like this,” he says. “Tonight, we do it my way. Make it count.”

“So, what do you want to . . . ?”

“Slowly,” he says.

 


	17. The Night Before Tomorrow

We sit on the bed facing each other. In between us, our history invisibly fills the space: his and my crimes, Vaisey, King Richard, Marian. However, it’s not as scary as it once was, not now we know each other better.

Guy had asked that we make tonight count and do it his way and I had agreed.

I fetched wine from the hall and we drank our first goblets in silence, letting the drink warm our bellies. Our tongues loosened with a second goblet and we talked about inconsequential things: the house, childhood games, which of us spoke better French (Guy, not surprisingly).

We also talked about the tunnel we’d been heading for before Christophe and his men attacked us. There will be no need to use it now. In a matter of hours, King Richard will be here with an army, and the castle, lacking Prince John and with a sickly sheriff to boot, will surely surrender without a fight. We did not speak any more of Christophe’s attempt to rape and mutilate Guy, nor of the young man in France, who took Guy to his bed. We especially didn’t talk about what decision the king might make over Guy’s assassination attempts.

Now the wine jug is almost empty.

“Do you think I could get me one of these?” Guy points at my outlaw tag lying on the bedside table.

“I expect I could find one for you,” I say. “I know Will made a few spares. They must be in the camp somewhere. Why do you want one?”

“Because it might help convince King Richard I’m on your side and no longer serve Prince John.”

“It can’t do any harm,” I say. “Talking of which . . .”

I work the ring off my finger. Guy frowns.

“Richard is observant,” I explain. “He knows I have never worn rings.”

“People change,” Guy says. “If he asks, tell him you wear it in memory of Marian.”

“I would rather not lie to Richard if I can help it. Now, no more talk of tags, rings, or the king. The night is wearing away and you said you wanted to fuck.”

Guy grins, flips back the blanket and pulls me down on top of him.

I study the man pinned underneath me.

“Bit late to decide you don’t like what you see, isn’t it,” Guy says.

“Just looking,” I say. “You did say slowly, after all.”

I run a trail of kisses down his neck and chest. Then I pleasure his nipples, my hands busy between his legs. Guy moans and hardens.

It’s no good. Despite the relaxing effects of the wine, I can’t do slowly. My need is immediate. It is also different from all the other times I’ve ached to bury my cock inside him. Tonight, I want to be dirty with him – dirty and feral. I want to go to the edge – beyond, if that is possible. I am a good person and always have been. But this is my shadow side and fucking Guy is as good as loosing a well-aimed arrow that finds its mark.

I claw my hands through his hair, love that it is long, and try not to think why that is.

“Let me hear you ask for it,” I say.

“What?”

“Tell me you want me.”

His eyes meet mine. He grins wolfishly.

Emitting a low growl, he flips me over and then rolls me onto my front. He straddles my thighs. “You want me inside you, filthy outlaw?”

“Yes.”

“You want me to fuck you till it hurts?”

“Yes.”

“Then let me hear _you_ ask for it.”

I ready myself for his probing fingers.

Instead, he rolls me over again, slides a wet tongue down the length of my body and takes me in his mouth.

I clamp my lips against the helpless whimper bubbling in my throat. I will not surrender – not yet. Because, suddenly, this has become a game, and I like to win.

Guy pulls away and wriggles up the bed, until we are face-to-face. He kisses me, sharing my taste. Clutching a fistful of my hair with one hand, he slides his other hand to my groin. He touches me, brings a finger to his mouth, licks and grins.

“How much longer then, outlaw?”

“Longer than you, you swine.”

Again, our eyes meet and something unspoken passes between us. The challenge is on. Heated skin slaps against heated skin. This has become a fight – a fight for dominance.

We kiss in between wrestling and nipping each other’s flesh, scars and split skin and ruined tattoos forgotten. Then, rolling across the bed, we crash onto the floor.

Guy is on top of me, both hands pressing onto my shoulder blades. He leans down and pushes his tongue into my mouth. I taste wine and a faint trace of my sex. He pulls away to stare down at me, his eyes dark and desirous. I know what I want now.

_The edge – beyond, if that is possible._

I nip his lower lip.

Guy jerks back, looks at me, long and hard. “So you want to play rough, is that it?”

“More than that,” I say.

“What?”

He pushes up onto his hands, regards me. I look at his powerful biceps and at the fine dark hairs on his lower arms.

“You know,” I say, unable to meet his eye.

“No, I—”

I struggle against his weight, but I’m not strong enough. I wrap my legs around his. No good. Only my mouth is free and I can’t say the words.

“The forest?” Guy says.

“The forest, what?”

“That day, in the forest. You took me to where we had a bloody great fight. You took me there and then said and did nothing. Why? Why did you take me there?”

He has asked the right question. All I need do is answer. Why am I so useless with words, at saying what I want, how I feel? I couldn’t do it with her and I can’t do it with him.

“Sixth letter of the alphabet.”

Guy stares at me, incredulous. “You want us to fight?”

“Yes.”

I can sense him weighing it up.

“I’ll hurt you,” he says.

“I know. I don’t care.”

And I don’t. Because this is the fight owing between us since the day I kissed Marian for the last time. Not that wretched moment when I first saw him on the boat and tried to throw him overboard. Not the solitary whack I gave him following the archery contest, in France. Not even the ill-conceived attempt I made to kill him in the meadow, at Étienne, before we saw the young girl, Marianne. No. The fight I want is the one I had with Allan, in the dead sheriff’s cabin. The only difference being I want to end up with something a bit sexier than a bloody nose.

“Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Guy hooks his hands under my armpits. With a rough jerk, he yanks me to my feet and slams me against the bed, cracking my shins on the hard wooden edge.

In false retaliation, I shove him backwards.

“I get it,” he says. “You want to fight and fuck. Dirty, filthy, Robin Hood. Lost his honour. Time to be bad, just like me. I always said there were things I didn’t know about you, Locksley.”

Already I sense the danger of the game we’re about to play – my sordid little fantasy.

“Guy, I—”

He surges forward, slams into me. I crash into the bedside table. Wine and candle wax splatters onto my bare legs. Scrabbling to my feet, I nimbly duck his fist. He lashes out blindly and catches my injured arm. I punch him in the gut.

He staggers, rights himself, and comes at me again.

“Is this you want, outlaw!”

The edge in his voice tells me what I am already afraid of: this is no longer a game to him.

The force of him crashing into me takes us both to the floor. He pins my arms. Splinters dig into my exposed flesh. Something wet is on my back: spilled wine.

Guy looms over me, hair everywhere, eyes ablaze. “It was your fault. She was my chance to become a better man, and I lost her because of you.”

We are back to Marian and I see what I have done.

Desperate to end this madness, I twist and claw my way out from under him. Guy grabs my ankles, pulls me back. I pretend to relax. His grip lessens. I swivel around and throw myself on top of him. He grunts in pain and I guess I have connected with his sore ribs or slashed leg. Guiltily, I ease away. Guy sees his chance, frees an arm and smashes a fist into my scarred side. He tips me off him and my face smacks into the spiteful wooden floorboards. A waft of red wine and candle wax fills my nostrils. I lift my head and wonder if I might end up with nothing more than a bloody nose after all.

Guy is kneeling on my back, his knees digging into my ribs, winding me. But, as he plunges a hand under my pillow, I know that lack of air is the last thing I need worry about. He wrenches my injured arm behind my back.

“I have you now,” he growls, the knife at my throat.

And, for the briefest moment, I think he is going to kill me.

I have gone too far. Guy once said he’d be bad for me, that he’d destroy me. It seems he’s about to be proved right. Because I had forgotten. Forgotten how easily he can snap. Of course, I have my own dark and vicious side. “You’re as violent as the next man,” he’d said. But I know when to stop, how to control it. Not him. Not Guy. I should not have forgotten this about him. Marian forgot, too.

“Want to know how it felt. To be at their mercy?” he snarls.

I know he is not talking about Christophe. Guy has moved beyond my game, gone to that dark place he often inhabits. I am losing him and, if I am not careful, I am also about to lose my life.

He grips my upper arms, yanks me to my feet, whirls me round and pushes me backwards until I hit the wall.

“Beg, Robin Hood!”

His face is so close to mine we could kiss.

“Guy, I’m not them. I’m not Christophe. I’m sorry, all right. What on earth would Marian say if she could see us now?”

I know I should not bring Marian into this, but she is the only thing I can think of that might bring him to his senses.

A sharp pain. I cry out, buckle. My knees smack onto the floor.

Guy crouches in front of me. He looks at my bloody leg and then at the knife in his hand. With an agonised cry, he hurls the knife away and it thuds into the far wall. His breathing is ragged, his eyes wide in horror.

“It’s all right,” I say, tears welling. “I’m all right.”

“Robin. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“It wasn’t your fault. I started it.”

“Let me see,” he says.

I look down at the slash on my thigh and then at the one on his. How could I have been so stupid? “I’m sorry. Really I am. I don’t know what possessed—”

“Shush,” he whispers.

He slides his hands around my neck, kisses me. We come to our feet. He is trembling, as am I. I wrap my arms tightly around him and press into his naked flesh. He smells of heat and sweat and wine. Desire still has us in her red-blooded grip.

“You still want this?” he asks.

“Yes. Oh God yes.”

He buries his hands in my hair. “You are mine and I am yours,” he whispers hotly in my ear. “Joined by blood – ours and hers.”

I cup his ball-sack, rock against him. Rough laughter escapes his lips. He spins me round and shoves my face into the wall. I taste wood. He tries to enter me but fails without the grease.

“Get it,” I croak.

I don’t move and he’s back within a handful of breaths. He enters me easily this time.

His thrusts drive me into the wall. I don’t ask him to stop. It’s no more than I deserve.

“Sweet Mother of God!” he cries.

He leans heavily into my back, his spilled lust slipping warmly down my inner thigh.

Easing away, his hand finds me.

“Let me hear you,” he says.

And I am there. I have reached that edge – that painful, delicious, all-encompassing edge. I close my eyes – break – and open them in time to see my own lust trickling down the wall.

“Was that the fuck you had in mind?” Guy asks.

I am leaning against the wall, breathing hard.

“Sort of.”

“And I thought I was the dangerous one,” he says.

We walk back to the bed, stepping over flecks of blood, spilled wine and discarded clothes and weapons.

“Remind me to do it your way in future,” I say.

~

Battered and bloody, we are lying in bed, under a pile of thick blankets. Guy has his arms around me. He is asleep. I can see the grainy light of dawn through the broken shutter.

My cut leg is throbbing. I try to make myself more comfortable. Guy stirs and wakes. He pushes back my hair and gazes into my eyes. He smiles and kisses me, long and hard. He says something, but the words are lost in my mouth. I think he is telling me he loves me but I cannot be sure, because the kiss muffles his words and I will not ask him to repeat them. Those words belong only to Marian, to my wife. He must not say them. And yet . . . The king comes tomorrow – correction – today. I do not know what will happen. Not everything is in my control. Not everything is a choice.

Guy goes to say more. I block his words with a fierce kiss, hold him tighter than the moment merits, and push away the thoughts of running and battlements, of swords and arrows, of falling through the air and of those unforgiving cobbles on castle courtyard.

 


	18. An Audience with the King

“I thought we’d have more time,” Guy says.

I have thrown open the hall shutters so I can keep an eye on the comings and goings outside.

“Come away,” I say, tugging on his arm.

He backs away from the window, leaving me standing there.

Horsemen are heading down the hill towards Locksley. I watch as they make their way past the church, the mill and the pond, heading for the manor house. Even though they are dressed in commoner’s clothing, it is obvious these men are not villagers.

They come closer and I recognise King Richard in the middle of the three riders. I’m surprised. Despite Christophe’s assertion that Richard would be coming to Locksley, I was certain a representative would precede him. Then again, Richard always was one for dealing with things personally.

I don’t recognise the two men flanking the king, although I concede it has been some time since I was in the king’s private guard and men come and go all the time, especially in times of war. They are wearing hoods, as is the king, but I can see enough of their shadowy faces to know that unless Christophe has grown a beard overnight, he is not one of the men presently dismounting their horses.

“Is it the king?” Guy asks.

“Yes. It’s Richard. I don’t recognise the other two.” I close the shutters, having seen enough.

Guy emits a relieved sigh, doubtless thankful that he will not have to face Christophe so soon after last evening’s cruel encounter. He goes upstairs to finish dressing and I follow to do likewise.

~

Fully dressed and ready to face my king, I take a moment to retrieve my knife from the wall – the one that usually lives under my pillow – and tuck it inside my holed boot under the bed. Guy watches me. The words ‘you really can’t be trusted with blades’run through my head but I have the foresight not to say them.

“I’m really sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“I know you didn’t. Fortunately, you did little more than nick me, so no harm done.”

I lie. The cut was, in fact, deep enough to require a few stitches and as soon as Guy fell asleep, I slipped out of bed, tore off the improvised bandages and dealt with it. He will notice, of course, next time he sees me naked – if there is a next time – but I will deal with that when the time comes. Right now, I have bigger concerns.

“Robin?”

“Yes?”

“What if he wants you?” Guy clenches his fists, something he does whenever he is anxious or angry. “I was there, remember. I heard what Christophe said. What if the king wants to make a bargain with you, in exchange for sparing me?”

“What kind of bargain?”

He glances at the bed. “You know what kind.”

“I’m strictly yours; you know that.”

“And he is the King of England. You took an oath, remember?”

“Yes, to serve my country, not to service King Richard.”

“Won’t you let me talk to him, plead my case?”

“No.”

“Why not? It’s my life we’re talking about here.”

“Exactly. And that temper of yours could be the ending of it.”

As if to bear out my words, Guy looks at the floor and then across to the far wall, doubtless still bearing the liquid trace of my shameless capitulation last night.

“What would Marian say?” he says, almost to himself.

“She would say we are both fools, and she would be right. But she is dead, and we are left with this.”

“And is this enough?” he asks.

“It will have to be. Trust me when I say I will find a way of convincing Richard to spare your life.”

“Huh.”

“What does that mean?”

“Well, let’s just say you’ve been a little unpredictable of late. I wouldn’t put it past you to use your charms on him.”

“Oh, so you admit I have charms?”  I go to kiss Guy and miss his mouth as he offers me a cheek instead. “Look, it won’t come to that. Believe me, this is the perfect time to appeal to the king’s better nature. Richard is going to be far more concerned with getting his castle and lands back than punishing you for what happened in Acre. And if I can convince him that you were only acting on the sheriff’s orders—”

“I was.”

“And,” I continue, “you are not a man to renege on your loyalty, however misplaced that loyalty might have been, then I do think the king might consider my request for clemency.”

Guy smiles.

“What?” I ask.

“Something tells me you’ve been practising this little speech of yours.”

“Well, what else is a man to do after being stabbed in the leg and fucked senseless up against a wall.”

“Good wall, though,” Guy says with a smirk. “Even so, I think you place too much faith in this king of yours.”

“He is your king too.”

“And he will have my support, if that’s what I must do. Now, won’t you let me come downstairs with you?”

“No. I want you to stay here, out of sight. I’ve spent a lot of time with Richard, as you know, and he can be as unpredictable as our weather. But if all goes well, then I can present you and soon.”

“And if all doesn’t go well?”

“Then we will think again.”

“I told you. I am willing to face whatever it is I have to face.”

“And I told you that I want you safe. So let me deal with this. Now, stay here and keep quiet. With any luck this will not take long.”

There is a painful moment, a moment when all my certainties desert me, and I wonder if this is the last time we will speak. Should I tell him what is in my heart? Should I say those three little words?

“Good luck,” Guy says.

He takes a step forwards and I think he is about to kiss me but, instead, he checks himself and, bizarrely, holds out a hand. I extend a hand in reciprocation and it reminds me of that moment in the forest when I held out my hand in invitation and decided to take a leap into the unknown.

I curl my fingers around his, shake his hand, let go, spin on my heel and stride towards the curtained doorway, those three little words still stuck in my throat.

~

“My God, Robin. Did the fight start already?”

Painfully aware that I’ve pulled my belt too tightly, I stumble down the last couple of stairs and kneel awkwardly in front of a dripping wet King Richard.

“Nothing a good tailor and a bath won’t fix.” I raise my eyes to meet Richard’s interrogating stare.

“Well, get up then, man, and I’ll see what I can do.”

I come to my feet, which eases the pressure of my belt somewhat, but does nothing to ease the tension I feel at being face-to-face with Richard. My armpits prickle with sweat despite the pervading chill in the air.

“I am glad to see you here and well, Your Highness.”

Richard turns to his men, who stand dripping in the doorway. “Leave us.”

The door closes and Richard turns to me, smiling. “Disguise didn’t fool you then?” He throws back the sodden hood covering his head.

I notice his blond hair has grown long since leaving the Holy Land and is flecked with grey; another reminder, as if I needed one, that Richard and I are nowhere near as compatible as he sometimes hinted at during our numerous private meetings, both in Acre and on the battlefield.

“The clothes are good,” I reply. “But no peasant travels by horse unless he’s been to market, in which case the horse would be pulling a cart.”

I wonder if Richard’s bodyguards are pressing against the door or are outside standing next to one of the shuttered windows, close enough to hear our conversation.

“Sorry, you’ve lost me,” Richard says.

Taking care not to limp – my cut leg is hurting a great deal more than it did last night, wine and sex masking the pain, no doubt – I throw open first one and then the other of the hall’s main windows. Richard’s men are standing in the rain with the horses, out of earshot.

“Not only did you come by horse,” I say, “but a fine, Normandy bred one at that. Fortunately, Locksley’s populace have better things to worry about than how a supposedly lowborn peasant has come to acquire such a valuable piece of horse flesh.”

“Still speaking your mind, Robin Hood?"

“If I have to.”

“You are still Robin Hood, aren’t you?”

“Sire?”

“Only Christophe was babbling away about you turning traitor and hooking up with the bad guys. To be perfectly honest, I think he’d been at the drink, although it’s hard to tell with Christophe. I never will fully understand that man to the day I die. Still, he has his moments.

“Sorry, Robin, rambling. It’s good to see you. When I heard your boat had gone down I feared the worse.”

“I was lucky, Your Highness. By rights I should have been dead, if—”

I am about to say if Guy had not saved me, but I am not sure I should bring him up so early in the conversation, uncertain as I still am of the account Christophe gave to the king.

“If?” Richard prompts.

“If God had not been on my side.”

“Well, remind me to thank him next time I’m at prayer, Robin.”

Richard unclasps his wet cloak and is astonished when I take it from him and hang it on a peg.

“No servants?” he quizzes.

“No servants,” I reply.

I can see Richard turning this fact over in his head and immediately regret my honesty about my lack of house-staff.

“What things have come to, eh? Now, let me look at you.” Running a hand through his scraggly, damp hair, Richard takes a step back and appraises me. “You’re looking a little thin, Robin.”

I swore I’d take a swing at the next person who dared say that, but perhaps the King of England should be an exception.

“Ah, Robin,” Richard says, his eyes crinkling in amusement, “ever quick to take umbrage. I see I’ve hit a nerve. Sorry. Never could resist baiting you. Talking of bait, tell me about Sheriff Vaisey. I hear he has become fish food. Am I right?”

“Yes. Vaisey went down with the boat.”

“You boarded the same boat out of Acre?”

“Yes.”

“I see. And the other one. Gisborne. What happened to him?”

“Christophe didn’t tell you?”

“Pah! I was in no mood for Christophe last night. The man may be a good fighter, but he is bloody useless at taking orders. I told him to bring you to me, and all he does is come back to tell me he found you in that blasted wood you used to call home. I sent him off with his tail between his legs, which was a pity because I rather fancied having _my_ tail between _his_ legs last night. It’s so damn cold in this country.”

I turn to stare out the window. Despite the heavy rain, Richard’s men are still standing by the horses.

Richard throws back his head and laughs. It’s enough the shake the timbers and I wonder what Guy must be thinking, sitting upstairs above our heads, though I guess laughter is preferable to an ominous silence.

“Does this shock you, my friend?”

“No,” I say, returning my attention to Richard and deliberately meeting his blue-grey eyes.

“No, well, I never could get one past you, could I, Robin. So, tell me. What happened to the traitorous bastard who tried to kill me?”

“Gisborne is alive.”

“Alive?”

“Yes.”

“What happened?”

“I tried to kill him.”

“And failed, obviously.”

“Things changed.”

“What things?”

“Pirates attacked the boat we were on. During the fight, I was hurt. Guy . . . Gisborne saved my life.”

“I see.”

“He also killed Sheriff Vaisey.”

“Indeed? You sound as if you’re about to say you have forgiven the man for killing your wife?”

“I have forgiven him. What’s more, he is with me now. When I say with me, I mean with us, with the gang, and—”

“God’s hairy bollocks, Robin! The man tried to kill me. He murdered your wife.”

I notice that Richard has put his near demise before that of Marian’s death and I have an overwhelming desire to punch him in the mouth. I won’t, of course, because he is the king and because he has the power to save Guy.

“I know. But he can help us. He knows of a tunnel and—”

“A tunnel. Blast it man! He is a traitor and a murderer and yet you talk of tunnels.”

“Please hear me out, Your Highness. I trust Guy. Trust him with my life. I know what we are up against. We have already had one confrontation with John’s men. Gisborne is a good swordsman and we need every able-bodied fighter we can get. As you know, sire, I left two of my number back in the Holy Land.”

“Three, don’t you mean?”

“Yes,” I say softly. “Three.”

Without waiting for Richard to dismiss me, I skirt past him and make for the open window. Leaning my palms on the sill, I stare at the leaden sky. It’s hard to imagine the end of winter.

I think of Guy, waiting patiently upstairs, listening to the rain. And I think of Marian, buried under the arid sand, with only the hot desert winds to keep her company. I want to go outside and scoop up a handful of snow before the rain washes it away. I want to take it to her grave and say, ‘here, a reminder of your home, of the place where you should be resting’. And the painful thing is I know I would be offering up the icy memory not to a dark-haired beauty in a white dress but to a white-boned outline of what she had once been.

I stick my hand out the window and let the rain splash onto my palm, hoping it will distract me enough from my unpleasant thoughts so that I can sensibly face my king.

“I am sorry, Robin,” Richard says, the stinging edge gone from his voice. “I know this is hard for you, but I do believe grief has impaired your judgment. Gisborne is guilty of treason and for that he must be punished.”

Richard’s men are looking at me and nudging one another and I recall boarding the boat out of Acre and suffering similar ridicule, though for an entirely different reason. I hate them. I hate them for catching sight of my wretchedness. And I hate that the King of England is standing in my house when the only person I want to be around, the only one able to understand my sadness, is Guy.

“No,” I say, turning around and no longer caring what Richard thinks, only wishing this to be over. “I do not want any more blood on my hands.”

“Are you saying you will not help me win back my castle?”

“No. I am saying I will keep my oath, and if I have to take a life in order to do so, then I will find a way to reconcile it. But I will not be party to bringing about the death of someone who has shown nothing but penitence the way Gisborne has.”

“Robin, I seriously believe you have taken leave of your senses. But if that is what you wish, so be it. I will say no more on the subject. Now, come sit and let us talk of other matters.”

Richard settles himself in the fireside chair and sighs in weary relief. If he thinks I’m going to light a fire, he can go take a running jump.

“Sit down, Robin.”

“I’m fine, thank you, sire.” Now that I know Guy is safe from reprisal, I wish nothing more than to hurry the king from the manor house and return upstairs.

Richard picks up a piece of kindling and pokes absently at the empty grate. “I’m surprised you came back here. I would have thought, after everything that happened in the Holy Land, you might have gone some place that holds fewer memories.”

“Locksley is my home.”

“Yes, but a lonely one, surely, with your men in the forest?”

Oh, he’s a sharp one. In the short time he’s been in the house, he’s worked out that I’m living here on a permanent basis, without my friends. What he hasn’t surmised is that I am not its lone inhabitant.

“I manage.”

“Even so, to be alone, I know what that is like. Kings and leaders of men often find themselves so. But there are times . . . well, I know you take your vows seriously, and I’m not suggesting that you should replace her so soon, but come, Robin. I’m sure Marian would not wish you to deny yourself some female company from time to time.”

“I do not seek female company.”

“Indeed?”

“I do not seek anything but that which I have.” Always, I have found it hard to lie to Richard, and now is no exception.

“Of course you don’t, my friend. It was crass of me to suggest otherwise. It is far too soon after Marian. But there are other forms of companionship.” He gives me a meaningful look. “Hah! Do I disturb you? Of course I do. See how you clam up. You were always so. Except when you disagreed with me. Only then would your tongue loosen. And believe me, many a time I was grateful for it. How I have managed to survive since you left is beyond me, and I believe were it not for Christophe’s, how shall I put it – _zeal_ – then, by now, I might have been several hands under the earth. But see here. Talk of the earth reminds me of my parched throat. Your king is here and yet you offer him no refreshment.”

“I am sorry, Your Highness. It was remiss of me, although I am not sure that we have any wine in the kitchens.”

I think of the spilled wine of last night and imagine it slipping through the floorboards and splashing, bloody red, onto Richard’s greying hair and sun-creased face.

“Wine, ale, I’m not fussed. And ale is the drink of the peasants, is it not,” Richard says, indicating his clothes.

“I’ll see what I can find, sire.”

~

I search the kitchens and wonder why we only appear to have a dried loaf of bread and some even drier cheese. Is Elisabeth unwell? If so, I feel badly. Because it is true that I never see the kind little lavender girl who so dutifully fills our larder for us. She slips in, unnoticed, delivering food and other necessities, collects the small pouch of money that I leave for her on a hook by the door, and slips away again. As soon as the king takes his leave, I must go check on her and her family.

I find what I am looking for and, only as I am returning to the main hall, recall that Nessa must have had her baby by now. Perhaps that is why Elisabeth has been absent. Even so, we will need food soon if we are not to go hungry. I’m sure I could find my way around the market and purchase all we need, but protecting my villagers from unwanted harassment and feeding the poor is my first priority, and I can’t see Guy wandering around Nottingham with a basket on his arm working out how many cabbages to buy.

The notion has me smiling and I only just remember to rearrange my face as I enter the hall. I don’t care that it is Richard, my sovereign, gracing my house; I do not intend to entertain the king any longer than necessary. The only person I want to share a drink and a meal with, even if it is only dry bread and cheese, is the man waiting upstairs.

Jug and goblets in hand, I step back into the hall and find Richard sitting in front of a crackling fire, bare-chested and bootless.

“Ah, Robin. What took you? I thought perhaps I had scared you off with my talk of male company and that even now you might be scampering through that damn forest of yours in search of your gang. Of course, technically, it is my forest, but—”

A sudden blast of wind and rain rattles the open shutters, distracting Richard from his thoughts. “Bloody weather,” he says. He gives me an expectant look.

“I’ll get it, shall I,” I say somewhat crossly.

As I am closing the shutters, I notice Richard’s men hunkering down by the wall, mumbling about doing all the dirty work and getting none of the benefit.

“Here, Robin. Come sit with me.” Richard pats the arm of his chair. “Oh, come on, man. You’ve seen your king in a state of undress many a time. It’s these damn peasant clothes. They’re so scratchy I’m sure I shall come out in a terrible rash.”

“Here.” I thrust a goblet of wine into Richard’s meaty hand and note the absurdly ornate ring he wears, another glaring piece of evidence belying his supposed peasant status.

Ignoring Richard’s invitation to rest alongside him, I drag over another low-slung chair, position it so it faces the fire, and sit.

“To us,” Richard says, raising his goblet. He downs a large gulp of wine and briefly closes his eyes. “Ah, that’s better. Now all I need is to warm my chilled feet and for this interminable rain to stop. It’s making a complete hellhole of our camp.”

“It is better than snow, surely?” I say.

“Maybe, my friend. But the snow has a certain beauty, does it not. It is probably the only thing I actually like about this cursed country in winter and the sooner I am done here the better.”

“You will leave?”

“Yes, to France. Perhaps you will come with me?” Richard reaches across the small divide between our chairs and lays a fire-warmed hand on top of mine. “I could do with some decent conversation again. Christophe is all very well, but if he is not talking of battles to be won, his conversation is really not worth my spit.”

“That’s not what I was given to understand, Your Highness.” I yank my hand from under his and come to my feet.

Richard throws back his head and guffaws. “Point to you, Robin. Now, take a drink, man,” – he waves his ringed hand at the jug – “and sit down before you fall down. You look hellishly tired.”

“I did not sleep well last night.” I think of Guy and me, trading blows, thrashing about on the floor and, finally, jammed up against the wall.

“Ah, now that I can understand,” Richard says. “An unshared bed can be the loneliest of places. And a king’s bed tends to be on the large side. One’s own hand can work wonders, of course, but sharing the chore is even better.”

If Richard thinks he can unsettle me, he’s going to have to try harder than that.

A small smile tugs at my lips as I recall one of the ways Guy likes to pleasure me. Richard lurches to his feet and, for an anxious moment, I think he has mistaken my smile for one of invitation. Instead, he dashes to the window and throws open the shutters.

“Sire?”

Richard waves me down. “Sit, sit, Robin. I’m being as skittish as that damn horse of mine. Those two are new and I wasn’t certain I could trust them. Good horses are worth a great deal, you know.”

Gratefully, I sink back into my chair. I stare into the fire’s flames and, as I do so, a memory licks at my consciousness.

_Hide your temper, bide your time until you can act decisively . . . or kiss your lands, if not your life, goodbye._

Did Marian say those words or Edward? I am too tired to remember. All I know is that I ignored them and ended up an outlaw.

The wine and lack of sleep are taking their toll, my eyelids continually smacking shut. Determinedly, I concentrate on the fire’s cracks and spits, Richard griping about his muddy camp and his cold feet, and the rain’s gentle drumming on the timbers.

“Robin?”

A whisper. Someone close to me.

Warm fingertips are stroking the back of my neck. My limbs feel too heavy for my body. I can’t remember the last time I felt this warm. Yes, I can. Last night, in bed, with Guy. I sigh and lean back into his caressing hands.

“I will send my men away,” Richard says.

My eyes snap open. I don’t even have time to turn around before the sound of booted footfalls alerts me to the terrible mistake I have just made.

“Get your bloody hands off him!”

As Guy thunders down the stairs, I hear the unmistakeable metallic scrape of a sword leaving its scabbard.

Horrified, I leap to my feet. This time there is no Marian standing between the king and Guy’s blade.

 


	19. Loyalty

“You bastard, Robin.”

Four steps up from the bottom stair, Guy leaps and charges.

Drowsy with wine and warmth, Richard hasn’t moved, apart from half-turning his head in Guy’s direction. The king’s grey-blue eyes widen as the tip of Guy’s sword digs into his naked back. The look of incredulity he gives me quickly becomes one of surprised comprehension.

This is it, the collision of my two worlds – my lover and my king. I cannot imagine it happening in a worse possible way.

“Guy, don’t.”

“Give me one good reason why not.” His eyes spark in fury, his face contorting in the mistaken belief that I have resorted to doing the one thing I promised I would not do: giving myself to Richard in exchange for Guy’s life.

“Well, well, well,” Richard says, gripping the back of the chair with his ruby-ringed hand. “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, eh, Robin. It seems I have done Christophe a disservice.”

Guy snorts and Richard flinches, a sure indication that Guy has just increased the blade’s pressure on the king’s ample back. However, Richard does not raise his arms to plead for his life. There is even a smile on his lips as he continues to hold my gaze, because the King of England, despite his growing mistrust, still expects me to do right by him.

At any other time, this is the moment where Little John will come crashing through the door, closely followed by Much, shield aloft, yelling all manner of threats, and Allan, deadly serious but still able to quip _all right gents_ as he calmly points an arrow. As for me, I will grab my bow, perform some fancy shot and we will be away. But my friends are in the forest and I am here, weaponless, gang-less and, for the moment, clueless about what to do next.

“I’m sure your men will be interested to know you harbour this traitor,” Richard says, his eyes flicking briefly to the shuttered window, doubtless thinking of his two bodyguards waiting outside, wondering perhaps if they can hear us above the pounding rain.

“My men already know.”

“Ah.” Despite his predicament, Richard’s lips curl in cruel amusement. “Now I see why they stay in the forest.”

He’s right. I hate it that he’s right.

“The estimable Robin Hood,” Richard continues easily, almost as if there is no sword waiting to plunge into his beating heart. “How we fall from grace. If I had known you would prove this easy, I might have tried harder. So, tell me, what has Gisborne got that I haven’t, eh?”

I glance at the king’s heavily freckled shoulder, think of Guy’s unblemished skin, and look up into my lover’s troubled eyes. “My trust,” I tell him.

Grateful, but still hesitant, Guy silently mouths my name, a question mark following it.

“I fell asleep,” I explain. “I thought it was you behind me.”

Guy returns his attention to the shirtless king and it is clear he doubts my explanation.

Cautiously, I begin to skirt around the chair, hoping that if I can just reach Guy, touch his arm maybe, he will lower the sword.

I notice Richard has let go of the chair-back and, as I edge forwards, a calloused finger lightly touches the back of my hand. I don’t know if this means he is about to make some unexpected move or if he is reminding me to keep my oath and protect my king. Either way, it infuriates me.

“No!” Guy barks. “Stay where you are. And you,” he says, eyeing Richard, “put your hands on the chair where I can see them.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then I’ll run you through.”

Richard places his bejewelled hands on the chair-back. I let go my withheld breath in relief.

Guy frees up a hand to push his long hair behind his ears and then resumes his double-handed grip on the sword’s hilt. I notice his arms are trembling with the effort of keeping the heavy blade steady. What he must be thinking I can only imagine. The last time his sword threatened King Richard it had resulted in Marian’s death. Is it crossing his mind that it might also result in mine?

Desperately hoping Richard is not about to make a sudden move, I take another tentative step towards Guy. “Put the sword down. This is all a misunderstanding.”

Instead of wavering, as I expected, Guy’s grip tightens and steadies, his eyes flicking from me to the back of Richard’s head. He licks his lips. This is his chance to finish something started long ago, Vaisey’s relentless indoctrination still powerful enough to give Guy cause to see it through.

Richard growls, his fingers clawing at the chair, his patience beginning to wear thin.

“Guy. You know I can’t let you do this. Now, lay down your sword and step away.”

“No. I’m going to do this thing, so back off, Robin. Back off or I swear I’ll have you too.”

I thought Guy was better than this. It seems I was wrong.

“Your Highness. If Guy backs down, do I have your word he will come to no harm?”

“Don’t bloody Your Highness me, Robin Hood. You’ve changed, and I’m not sure I like what I’m seeing. Give you my word! What do you know of words? You swore an oath to serve king and country. And now look at you. Fraternising with the enemy. No deal.”

“Sire. Guy is not the enemy, not mine and not yours, not any more.”

“And with which piece of your anatomy are you talking now, Robin?”

This is not going well. I should be talking Guy down, not arguing with Richard.

“Robin?” Guy says.

“What?”

“Are there men outside?”

“Just two, but—” A mistake, much like Much’s thoughtless _my master and I_ during our first encounter with Vaisey’s idea of maintaining law and order.

Guy laughs mirthlessly at my idiotic blunder.

“If you let me do this,” he says, “no one need know, just us. The noose will no longer be around my neck and we can—”

“No! You know how I feel about you. But I can’t let you do this. Richard is the king. I protected him while fighting in the Holy Land. Marian gave her life for him. If you kill him it will be over between us, surely you can see that.

“Besides, if you kill the king it makes no difference. You are an outlaw now, the same as me. The threat of death will always be hanging over our heads until there is peace in this land, and King Richard can restore that peace.”

Guy’s eyes meet mine and he gives a slight nod realising the truth of my words. He takes several steps backwards, lowering his sword as he does so. “Now what?”

“What indeed,” Richard replies, turning to face him.

I know what I want to happen. I want to loosen my too-tight belt. I want to eat. I want to go back to bed with Guy, hold him in my arms and sleep.

The hall door smacks back on its hinges. Guy whips up his sword and advances on the king, my cautionary words forgotten.

Before I can even shout a warning, although whether meant for Guy or Richard I don’t know, a dagger is digging into my side.  

“Ah, Christophe,” Richard says, darkly amused. “Glad you could join the party.”

Guy snarls, lunges forwards and digs the tip of his blade into Richard’s hairy chest. Grasping my clothing, Christophe drags me across the hall so that both Guy and the king can see us clearly.

“Push that sword any harder,” Christophe warns Guy, “and lover boy here gets it.”

“Harm him and your king dies,” Guy retaliates.

“Well, Robin,” Richard says. “What a conundrum, eh. Perhaps we could agree to a trade – your bedfellow for mine. Or better still, how about we let these two fight it out while you and I go talk about how to get my damn castle back. After all, I didn’t have you in my service just for your pretty face, although I have to admit that was always a consideration. So, what to do, eh. Because I swear if this bastard doesn’t stop poking me with his sword I’ll hang the pair of you on the spot, trial and justice be damned.”

I know I must stay calm if I am to stand any chance of pleading for Guy’s life. But since my first uneasy meeting with Richard just a short while ago to this deadly standoff something has unquestionably shifted in me, the knot of quiet resentment now a great gut-churning ball of anger, and I have an overwhelming desire to smash Richard’s imperious face in.

“Sire,” Christophe says. “Huntingdon, this _traitor_ , has lost all sense of right and wrong.”

“And we would know all about that, wouldn’t we, Christophe.”

Christophe swears in his native French and brings the dagger up to my throat.

The king scowls. “For God’s sake, man. Do try to rein in that temper of yours. Do you want it to be the death of me? This traitor, as you call Robin, is no such thing. If he were, he’d have encouraged Gisborne to run me through long before you stepped into the room. No, the only thing Robin is guilty of is cosying up to this black-hearted devil. Now I tire of this game. Order the men in here.”

His dagger still to my throat, Christophe calls for the king’s men.

Moments later, several crusaders enter the hall. With a chuckle of satisfaction, Christophe releases me. I raise my hands in surrender and nod at Guy, who drops his sword and does likewise.

“You disappoint me, Robin,” Richard says. “There was I thinking it is the loss of your good lady that makes you reluctant to return to my side, only to find that you have been bedding this traitorous bastard. You know, I am very tempted to chuck you both in a cell and throw away the key. But because my camp has only one such room, and a small and makeshift one at that, I think perhaps that would suit the two of you only too well.”

Richard thinks I have betrayed him. He thinks I have sold out on the king I revered for so long for nothing more than personal gratification and I doubt he is going to give me the chance to tell him otherwise.

The king barks an order. Knocking me aside, two guards grab hold of Guy and shackle his hands behind his back.

“What are you going to do with him?” I ask Richard.

“Gisborne will be incarcerated until such time as I have dealt with Nottingham and then he will be tried and punished according to law.”

“Whose law?”

“The law of the land, of course.”

I know what this means.

“Please, Your Highness. If I agree to fight with you, help win back your castle and defeat the remaining Black Knights and those loyal to John, will you not consider granting Guy a pardon?”

“No, Robin. I do not make bargains, not even with you.” He turns to his men. “Take Gisborne to the camp and keep a close eye on him. And someone hand me my clothes and saddle my horse. I am done here.”

With a malicious grin, Christophe strides across the room. He grabs hold of Guy’s doublet and yanks him towards the open door.

“Guy,” I call after him. “I will deal with this.”

Guy twists his head in my direction. “That’s what you always say.”

His painful accusation is more than I can bear and when Richard snorts in derision, I snap.

~

It’s a shame it’s over so quickly because there’s no denying the feeling of satisfaction I get from knocking Richard to the floor. My only regret is that I’m not wearing my bulky silver ring and could have left a more tangible reminder of just how much I don’t like him any more.

“About bloody time!” Waving his men away, Richard sits and rubs his jaw. “I was beginning to think you’d gone soft on me. Good to see the old Robin of Locksley hasn’t entirely disappeared. So, do you feel better now, eh, or would you like some more?”

I can’t tell if Richard is teasing me or not.

“It’ll do,” I say.

There is no point apologising. I always knew my relationship with Guy would likely prove my downfall. I just never envisaged it being this way.

I want to tell Guy, by way of words that only he and I might understand (a reference to my saving him from drowning as our boat was sinking, perhaps), that I will find a way out of this and that I will come for him. But he is already outside and I know that if Christophe’s treatment of him last evening is anything to go by, then Guy’s imprisonment could be the death of him long before he is marched to the gallows. My chest heaves with regret, with fear for Guy, for us, and the knowledge that it could all be over.

I limp to one of the hall’s open windows. Richard watches me but says nothing. Christophe ropes Guy to one of the waiting horses.

Many moons ago, I was tied in a similar manner, forced to walk behind Guy’s powerful mare at the behest of Sheriff Vaisey. I wonder if Guy will fall as many times as I did. He will certainly be a lot muddier than I was when he reaches their destination, wherever that might be.

Richard orders the remaining crusaders outside.

Alone with the king, I seize my chance to make a final plea for Guy’s life. Guy knows the castle better than anyone does, even Allan. And he knows about the tunnel. If I can convince Richard that Guy would be more useful if he remained with us rather than chained up and at the mercy of Christophe’s malicious streak then . . .

I go down on bended knee. “Your Highness, I—”

“Save your breath, Robin.” Knocking into my shoulder, Richard strides to the far wall and plucks his cloak from the peg. “I’ll see myself out, shall I?”

I don’t answer and, with a resounding huff, the king marches out the door.

As easily as that, he has dismissed me. Richard once thought the world of me. Not any more. I think he will be happy if he never sees me again.

The feeling is mutual.

 


	20. Nothing Left to Lose

The moment the king’s party disappeared from view, I grabbed my weapons and chased after them. I had an idea that I could somehow cut Guy free of his bonds and that the two of us could make for the forest and hide or flee Nottinghamshire or something. I abandoned the idea, however, when I saw how many crusaders were surrounding him and instead sped towards Sherwood. I needed the gang.

“You call punching the King of England a mistake?” Allan says.

“A big mistake, I’ll admit,” I say. “Look, Richard wasn’t keen on granting Guy a pardon and—”

“No surprises there. He did try to kill the king – twice.”

“I know that, but I explained to Richard that Guy was – is – on our side now and that he can help us. In fact, the king more or less said that he wasn’t bothered about punishing Guy, that he had more important things to deal with, but then Guy came downstairs and things got a bit out of hand.”

“How out of hand?” Little John asks.

“It doesn’t matter. Richard changed his mind about letting Guy be and then Christophe arrived and made matters worse and after that they took Guy away.”

“Aye, well, what’s done is done,” John says. “Now perhaps we can concentrate on what we’re _supposed_ to be doing.”

“I have not forgotten what we do, John.”

“No?”

“No. But I need to rescue Guy first, and I can’t do that without your help.”

“No.”

“Please. Christophe will butcher him if he gets the chance. You saw what he’s like.”

“The answer is still no. Feeding the poor, protecting the people, that is our job. I know how you feel about him, though God alone knows why, and I do have some sympathy for him, surprising though that may seem. But it’s over, Robin. It’s in the king’s hands now.”

“But what if it were me?”

“It’s not you though, is it? It’s _him_.”

How anyone can inject such venom into such a simple word as him, I do not know. But there it is. John has made his position clear.

“Not being funny, Robin,” Allan says, a hint of apology on his face, “but it’s a lot to ask of us.”

“I wouldn’t be asking if I thought I could do it by myself, but I can’t. Anyway, breaking Guy out of the king’s camp is a last resort. To start with, I’ll try appealing to Richard again. He was in a foul temper this morning, but perhaps he has calmed down now and will listen to reason.”

Allan looks unconvinced. “The thing is – these are the king’s guards. They’re not going to be anything like Vaisey’s old lot. It’s going to take a lot more than a sewer, a well-placed cartload of straw and a few hoods to get past them, if you catch my drift. And, in case you hadn’t noticed, it’s getting dark and you don’t have the foggiest where the king’s camp is.”

He has a point.

Much tentatively raises a hand.

“Yes?” I say.

“This whole rescuing a chained and guarded man from a camp full of crusaders right under the king’s nose. Isn’t it a bit . . . ambitious?”

“As I said, Much. It’s a last resort.”

“You’re not proposing we go right away, are you? Only I quite fancy the bed, sleep thing myself.”

“I cannot wait. Guy cannot wait.”

“What I mean by that,” Much says, “is that you should eat supper and sleep, go in the morning, when you can at least better see where you’re going. You’re always telling us that we should wait and think and then when it comes to something you want to do, you want to go charging off just like that. You don’t even know where you’re supposed to be charging to.”

Like Allan, Much also has a point. Besides, if Christophe is intent on hurting Guy then he might have done it by now, either on the way to their encampment or at the camp itself. My best hope is that he’s not found a chance to be alone with Guy and that the king will keep him busy tonight.

“You’re right,” I say. “Both of you. But at first light, I’m heading off, with or without you. Now, you mentioned something about supper.”

Looking happier, Much fetches me a bowl of stew and some bread. “You didn’t happen to mention Bonchurch to the king, did you?”

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.”

“Oh. Right. Yes.”

I carry my food to the fallen tree where we usually take our meals. Much, Allan and John fetch their own suppers and join me. I’m starving. I can’t remember when I last ate. I’ve scraped my bowl clean before the others are halfway through their meal. 

Much fetches me a second helping. “Don’t you two ever eat?”

“Only each other,” Allan quips.

I’m too tired and upset to bother reacting.

Eating slowly, savouring the food this second time around, I let the gang’s quiet chatter wash over me. They’re careful what they talk about with me listening, keeping it to non-inflammatory matters like the melting snow and what animal might be in our bowls of stew.

I miss this. I miss this simple act of eating together at the end of a long day, sharing friendly banter and making plans and schemes. Not that it could ever be like that again even if this thing with Guy hadn’t happened. Because Marian’s absence would have continued to cast a shadow over everything and nothing, barring complete memory loss, will cancel out all those angry, bitter words I hurled at my friends in my darkest moments on board the boat from Acre. Meal times, gang times, together times, will never be the same again not even if – God please no – Guy goes to the gallows and I return to the forest. I can’t even find some solace in the fact that Prince John has left our shores and Richard the Lionheart is back on English soil, which means our outlaw days may soon be over.

Supper finished, Allan and John say their goodnights. Much stays, jabbering on about the recent heavy rain and the mess it’s made of the camp, turning the ground to slush, lamenting the loss of the snow fortifications that he, Allan and Guy made. I recall the happy look on Guy’s face after John and I returned to the camp and an engulfing hollowness balloons large in my chest stealing my breath away.

“Are you all right?” Much asks.

I shake my head.

“Robin. He’s the king. The King of England. We’re his men. I don’t understand why you’ve suddenly turned against him. All right, so we had that er . . . misunderstanding in the Holy Land and the whole strung up in the desert under a merciless sun thing, which wasn’t exactly pleasant, but still, the king. The actual king. We’ve waited so long for this moment and now it’s finally arrived.”

“I haven’t turned against him, as you put it. But he’s not the man I once thought he was. He’s changed.”

“Maybe you’re the one who’s changed. Have you thought of that?”

Ignoring Much’s words, I drop to my knees and warm my hands over the fire.

“You’re still wearing it, then?” he says.

I look at my outstretched hands and at the bulky silver ring on the middle finger of my right hand. I’d fetched it before leaving the house. Now that Richard knows about Guy and me, I saw no need to leave it off my finger.

“I’m going to get him out of there,” I say. “One way or another. I can’t let it end like this. When we were on the boat, Guy said I could give him his pride back and—”

“Is that a euphemism for  . . . you know?” Much makes a vulgar hand gesture.

“No it is not. It’s the truth. This upcoming fight for the castle, if indeed a fight is what it comes to, will give Guy the chance to be the better man that Marian once said he could be. And I intend to give him that chance.” Of course, there’s more to it than that. Because, as I once couldn’t imagine a world without Marian in, now I cannot imagine one without Guy in. “Listen. When I first spoke to Richard on his arrival in Locksley, he all but said he didn’t give a damn about punishing Guy, that he was more concerned with reclaiming his castle and then returning to France. It was only after Guy—”

“After Guy what?”

“After he showed himself that Richard changed his mind. The king doesn’t want to hang Guy because he committed treason or because he tried to kill Richard in the Holy Land. He wants him dead for personal reasons. He wants him dead because he worked out that Guy and me . . . well, I don't have to spell it out, do I?”

“I'd rather you didn't mention it at all, if you don't mind.”

“I'm sorry. But not talking about it won't make it go away. You know, I always knew Richard had an interest in me; I just didn’t want to admit it. Now I see him for what he is, not what I wanted him to be. Even so, I won’t deny he’s a brave knight, and I have no doubt he will die in some battle or other, as is his wish. And on that score, I’m with the king. If I have to die – and God knows I probably deserve it – I’d sooner it were fighting than to find myself strung up with my guts spilling out. That’s what I want for Guy. He’s a knight, after all.”

Much shuffles closer to the fire and stretches his multi-coloured woollen jumper over his knees. “Actually, I’d prefer the whole grey-haired, grandchildren, blanket over knees thing.”

“Well,” I say with a smile, “that would be nice, but can you honestly see it, for any of us?”

“I don’t see why we—”

“Much. I have to try and rescue Guy, if only to show him that I haven’t failed him as everyone else did.”

“What, and get killed in the process?”

“There’s always a chance while I can still do this.” I pat my bow. “And who knows. Perhaps it won’t come to that. Perhaps I can still appeal to Richard’s better nature, even if I have to grovel or—”

“Or what?”

“Nothing.” I’m thinking about Guy’s earlier insinuation that I might offer myself to Richard. “It’s nothing. Go to bed. I’ve got an early start.”

I thought Much would amend that to ‘we’ve got an early start’ _._ Instead, he simply wishes me goodnight and heads off to bed.

It looks as if I’m on my own.

~

It is morning. I can smell woodsmoke and something meaty cooking. The gang are out of bed and presently gathered on the other side of our curtained-off sleeping area. They are talking about me.

“Look, I quite like Guy. There, I’ve said it. But, not being funny, this is not like robbing taxes.”

“That’s why Robin needs us.”

“Robin chose his path, Much. And just because he’s our leader that doesn’t make it right, or that we should follow him in everything he does.”

Always, John is the voice of dissent, as well as the voice of reason.

“Yes, but we chose to be a gang. And gangs stick together and help each other out, no matter what.”

“Yeah, well, there’s helping and there’s suicide,” Allan says. “On the other hand, what Much says about us sticking together is true . . . and before you start spouting off about that other thing, I’ve said sorry a million times, all right.”

“No.” There are a couple of thuds, and I know John is stabbing his staff into the ground, demanding their attention. “Listen to me for once. We are not going to rush off on a fool’s errand just because Robin wants us to. Have you both conveniently forgotten exactly who we are talking about here?”

“No, John, it’s just that—”

“Gisborne!” John booms, as though Allan has not spoken, as though I am not resting just a short distance away. “We are talking about Gisborne. Do you know what he does? Do you?”

“John, we—”

“I’ll tell you what he does, shall I. He watches while good, honest folk have their tongues cut out, while my Alice struggles and cries for mercy. He burns houses and murders defenceless women. And now he and Robin lie with each other and—”

“Enough, John! We get the picture, all right.”

“No, Allan, I don’t think that you do.”

“Look, we’re not saying Guy didn’t do all those things. But he’s changed. People can change, John. Much?”

“Do we have to do this now?”

Poor Much. He hates taking sides.

“Yes,” John says. “We do. Speak.”

“All right. Er, what Allan says is right . . . and what you’re saying is right as well. But Robin is my master. Wait. I know what you’re going to say; he made me a free man. Well, it is my right as a free man to say that I will always think of Robin as my master, and I will always do what I swore to do all those years ago and look after him. But he is also my friend and I love him, and I will never stop loving him no matter what he does and . . . what was the question again?”

“Are we going to help Robin or not?” Allan says.

I consider covering my ears. I can’t bear that they are arguing over me or that I am the cause of so much animosity. But I have to know if they are going to support me in any rescue attempt. Guy’s life may depend on it.

“Much?”

“I . . . er . . .”

“Well I will help Robin if you lot aren’t going to.”

I recognise the voice.

“Blimey!” Allan exclaims. “Where the hell did you spring from?”

It is Rowena. The last girl I ever held.

 


	21. For Robin

Allan is telling Rowena about the king being back in England. Much keeps butting in so he can tell her the same piece of startling news. Rowena laughs at the pair of them and tells them she already knows King Richard is here.

I ease my legs over the side of the bed, scrub my face with my hands and pull on my boots.  I don’t know whether I’m glad or annoyed that Rowena’s here. Either way, she couldn’t have picked a worse day to turn up.

Much blurts out that I punched the king in a fit of temper after he refused to pardon Guy. Allan calls him a blabbermouth. John tells the pair of them to shut up.

“We all make mistakes,” Rowena says.

I wonder if she is referring to our impulsive lovemaking or the fact that I chose Guy over her rather than my hitting the King of England.

“You remembered the way here, then,” I say, stepping out to greet her.

“I have a good memory.”

“Well, you’ve obviously remembered you’re a girl.” Allan is referring to her dress and longer hair.  

“I think Robin will tell you that I’ve always been a girl.” Twin spots of pink stain her cheeks when she realises what she’s just intimated.

“How have you been?” I ask. “More to the point, where have you been?”

“I’ve been in Clun, which is where I said I would be and which you would have known if you’d visited.”

She says it lightly, but I know she’s having a go at me for seemingly forgetting all about her after I took up with Guy.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “It was remiss of me not to come see you and make sure you were all right. I thought when you said you were going to Clun you were just saying that to make me feel better. I didn’t know you had somewhere to stay there.”

“I made some friends there soon after I fled the castle.”

“Was this before or after you decided to live in Locksley Manor and pretend to be my sister?”

“Before.”

I notice the gang have disappeared; I guess to give Rowena and me some privacy.

“So,” she says. “I gather from what the others were saying that the king has taken Gisborne?”

“Yes.”

“And you want to rescue him?”

“If it comes to that, yes.”

Rowena clutches her woollen shawl across her bosom. I notice she is shivering and I suggest we move closer to the fire.   

Much brings us breakfast: a meaty broth. He gives me a bowl and offers one to Rowena. She waves him away.

“It’s not your cooking,” she hastily says, seeing the wounded look on Much’s face. “I’m not hungry right now, that’s all.”

Much walks away, eating out of Rowena’s bowl as he does so.

“So, tell me,” I say. “What have you been doing with yourself all this time? I’m sorry you decided not to stay with us.”

“I couldn’t have stayed here. Surely you can see that.” 

“No, I guess not.”

We lapse into an awkward silence. Out the corner of my eye, I can see her fiddling with the frayed edges of her shawl.

“What is it?” I ask.

“Nothing. It’s cold, isn’t it?”

“I’m sure you didn’t come here to talk about the weather?”

“No.” 

“So what did you come here for?”

“I wanted to see you. I’ve missed you.”

I know the kind response would be to say ‘I’ve missed you too’ but that would be a lie. I’ve hardly given her a thought since she wished me well and rode away from the camp.

“You still haven’t answered my earlier question,” I say.

“What question was that?”

“About what you’ve been doing with yourself all this time.”

“Oh, that. Well, sewing mostly.”  Rowena smiles to herself, as though amused by the notion. 

“You, sewing, really?”

“Yes, really. I am a woman after all.”

“You wouldn’t be the first woman I’ve met who doesn’t sew or at least gives a very good impression of not being able to.” 

“I’ve also been looking after Thomas’s sick wife.”

 “Thomas?”

“The wheelwright. He’s—”

“Yes, I recall who he is now. Big fellow. People say he has a tiny stick of a wife, though I can’t say I’ve ever seen her.”

“She’s in bed mostly. I don’t think anyone knows exactly what’s wrong with her. I don’t think she does. Anyway, I’d helped them out before I came to Locksley and they were happy to take me back. They can’t pay me, of course, but I get food and I have a room to myself. I said I needed somewhere to stay now you were back in the manor house. I suppose they thought it strange you didn’t offer me a home, but if they did, they were too polite to ask.”

“And are you happy there? Only you seemed to rather like playing at being me.” 

“As I once said to Much, there can only be one Robin Hood.”

“Well I’m glad you’ve found a home after being without one for so long.”

She lightly touches my ringed hand. “You stayed with him, then? I thought perhaps it wouldn’t last.”

“Surprising as it may seem, yes, I stayed with him, or maybe he stayed with me, I don’t quite know.”

“I don’t find it so very surprising. After all, his was the name you called out in the night and I could tell it wasn’t in anger.”

_When the name you speak is not the name of the person in your arms_. That’s what she’d said. It seems I hadn’t called out Marian’s name in my sleep after all.

“I’m sorry. What we did . . . what I did, was unforgiveable.”

“I wanted it just as much as you.” She turns away and stares at some far off point in the forest. “I know it’s not easy for a man to comprehend, but women do have desires and hopes and dreams just as much as any man.”

For a breath or two, it is as if Marian is whispering in my ear. _Find Lardner, bring the king home, defeat the sheriff and get married._ Her hopes and dreams, brought to an end by the man I want to save. Perhaps I should leave Guy’s fate to the king after all.

“Robin,” Rowena says. “I told your men I could help you and I can. I know where the king’s camp is.”

“What?”

“I know where King Richard is. I can take you there. First, though, I think I should go back to Clun and change out of these girl’s clothes and—”

“No. There isn’t time for that.”

“I was going to say . . . and get Luke and Thomas. Not big Thomas. Luke’s friend Thomas.  If there is going to be any fighting, you will need more help.”

Much, John and Allan come and join us, assuming, I guess, that our conversation is no longer one that requires privacy.

“I can’t get Luke and Thomas mixed up in this, nor you, young lady. However, it would help if you could tell me where the king’s camp is so I can get there as speedily as possible.”

“So _we_ can get there,” Little John says.

“We?” I query.

“Yes, all of us. We’re coming with you. Not you, though,” he tells Rowena. “You’re looking a little peaky.”

“I’m fine, honestly. I haven’t been well it’s true. But that’s also true for half of Clun.”

John glares at me and I know what he’s thinking. He’s thinking we should be helping the people of Clun. If there is illness in the village, the people will need decent food and medicines. He’s thinking we should not be spending our time trying to rescue a man who, in the eyes of both the gang and my people, does not deserve our sympathy.

“I can’t, John. Not now. Once I have seen the king and got Guy out then—”

“There’s no need to be concerned,” Rowena interrupts. “It’s just winter ailments, nothing the better weather won’t fix. And now that I am well, I can quite easily deliver what is needed if you can supply me with it.”

Reassured, John says, “Very well. We go to Nott . . . er, wherever the king’s camp is.”

“We will visit Clun as soon as this is done,” I tell Rowena. “You have my word.”

“The king’s camp is north of the Treeton Mines,” she says.

“You’ve been there?”   

“No. Luke and Thomas were out poaching deer and they saw some men in tunics that they recognised belonging to crusaders and decided to follow them.”

“Bit risky taking deer now the king’s in the forest,” Allan says.

“I think the king has bigger concerns than worrying about his deer,” I say. Then to Rowena, “How long ago was this?”

“Three days.”

“Right. Grab what you need everyone and let’s go. Not you, Rowena. I think we’ll be able to find the king’s camp from what you’ve told us.”

“Sewing and caring for a sickly woman I can do without today,” she says. “I’m coming with you. Or do you want to shoot another arrow at me and stop me?” She taps her upper arm, the one I nicked with an arrow in an effort to persuade her to return to the safety of the house and let us men deal with Prince John’s knights. Not that it dissuaded her, feisty thing that she is.

“All right. You can take us to the king’s camp. But once we get there, you keep out of the way. In fact, you’re all to keep out of the way until I have spoken to Richard. With luck, my tongue will win Guy’s freedom. And if you dare make a joke about that Allan a-Dale . . .”

“Me?” Allan gives me a look of feigned innocence. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He grins and then waggles his tongue at Much.

Much screws up his face. “You’re disgusting, you know that.”

“Get lost, the pair of you,” John says waving them away. “In case you haven’t noticed, there’s a lass in our midst.”

Looking contrite, the two of them go off to fetch what they need; in Much’s case, a loaf of bread as well as his weapons.

“What made you change your mind about helping me?” I ask John.

“Alice.”

“Alice?”

“Do you want me to leave you two alone?” Rowena asks.

“No. Stay,” John says. “And sit. Rest while you can. We’ve quite a walk ahead of us.”

“Guy’s horse?” I say, remembering the grey we’d ridden on together.

“Sold to a wealthy merchant,” John says. “For people who needed the money more than we needed a horse.”

“I’m quite capable of walking,” Rowena says. “Stop treating me as if I’m some kind of weakling just because I’m a girl.”

“Sorry, lass. John turns back to me. “Last night I spoke angrily about Gisborne standing by while my Alice struggled, terrified of losing her tongue. But when I went to bed, when my anger had cooled, I remembered the other reason why I get so mad whenever I think of that day. _Regret_ , Robin. Regret that I didn’t put things right between Alice and me, that I didn’t show myself instead of hiding in the forest all those years, that I wasn’t a father to my son.”

“What does this have to do with rescuing Guy?”

“Because I know what it feels like knowing that you could have done something and not doing it. That is what you will feel if you don’t try to help him. I may not like him, and I may think that what you and he are doing is wrong, but I don’t want you to go through the rest of your days regretting that you did not do something. That is why I am going to help you.  That, and because what Much said is right – we are family and a family should stick together and help one another.”

“John, I—”

“Eat your food,” he cuts across me. “I’ll not be stopping to carry you because you’ve passed out on the way there.”

Much and Allan return, wearing or carrying their weaponry, Much fumbling with his shield as he stuffs bread into his mouth.

I smile. My funny, beautiful, exasperating gang.  I should have known they’d come through for me in the end.

 


	22. A Done Deal

“Maybe this won’t be so difficult after all,” Allan says.

Crouching behind the trees, we contemplate the king’s encampment. There are fewer tents than I thought there would be. They can house no more than a score of crusaders. Hardly what I’d call an army.

I point. “There’s the king’s tent. The one on the far side of the clearing. It’s bigger than the rest.” 

“Where do you think Guy is?” Much asks.

“I don’t know. Possibly in one of the other tents. Maybe elsewhere. The king talked about a small cell when he spoke to me, so perhaps—”

“Robin Hood! I know you’re out there. Now stop skulking in the damn woods and show yourself!”

It’s King Richard. 

“How did he know we—”

I shush Much, quickly surmising that the king must have placed sentries near the camp and they had seen us and signalled so.

“Stay here,” I say. “I want to talk to the king by myself.”

John places a restraining hand on my shoulder. “It could be a trap. Shouldn’t we—”

“No.”  I shrug his hand off me. “I know the king is displeased with me, but I’m certain he won’t hurt me or us. We’ve served him too long and too loyally.”

“We thought that in the Holy Land,” Much says, “and where did that get us? Roped up like pigs on a spit, left to roast in the boiling hot—”

“Enough,” I tell him.

“I’m just saying.”

I return my attention to the camp. Richard is standing in the open doorway of his tent, a crown upon his head. Two crusaders flank him, armed and ready to protect the king if needs be. Upon hearing Richard’s shout, about a dozen crusaders have gathered in the clearing. They stand quietly, their eyes flicking between the king and the surrounding trees. Christophe doesn’t appear to be among them.

“We will come with you,” John says. “Family, remember?”

I briefly consider and then nod. “All right. Together. But you let me do the talking and stay alert.” I’m particularly looking at Much as I say this.

I turn to Rowena. “You should wait here. If, God forbid, we find ourselves in chains, I don’t want you to suffer our fate.”

She starts to protest and John pulls her away for a quiet word.

I ease my bow off my shoulder and let it hang loosely in my right hand. I tweak one arrow so that it sits slightly higher in my quiver than the others. Allan checks the slip of the two blades on his back, nods in readiness. Much swallows and pats his shield as he would a trusty friend. John rejoins us, staff at the ready. I turn around to see Rowena crouching in the undergrowth, scowling.

“Ready?” I ask.

“Aye,” John says. “We’re ready.”

Cautiously we make our way out of the cover of the trees and head towards the waiting crusaders and King Richard. We are halfway across the clearing, when a shout goes up behind us. We halt and turn around. A crusader emerges from the trees dragging Rowena behind him. It looks as if I was right about those lookouts. 

The crusader shoves Rowena towards me. “Another one of your rabble. Any more hiding out there in the woods?”

“No.”

“Come forward,” Richard commands. “All of you.”

We do so, stopping a yard or so in front of the king.

“Robin Hood,” Richard says. “I might have guessed you’d not leave it at that.”

“Your Highness.” I drop to one knee. Out the corner of my eye, I see Rowena spread her skirts and fall into a deep curtsey, and I sense Much, John and Allan following my lead. 

“Loyal to the end, eh, Robin?”

“Sire?”

“Your friends.”

I look up and meet Richard’s steely gaze.

“You know, Locksley, I should make you kiss my ring, my feet and just about anything else I can think of. Most men would hang for what you did yesterday.”

Biting my tongue lest I speak my mind, I return my attention to the forest floor, concentrating on a patch of soggy leaf-mould just in front of Richard’s shiny brown boots. I can hear the king muttering under his breath.

“And . . . twenty,” Richard says. “You may stand.”

We do so. Richard eyes Rowena. He smiles, though it seems to be one of deliberation rather than warmth.  I sense Rowena squirming under his scrutinising gaze.

The king returns his attention to me. “You’re a very determined man, walking all this way in such miserable weather. The bastard must mean quite a lot to you.”

“Where is Guy?” I demand, forgetting that I’d planned to be respectful and apologetic after my complete lack of manners yesterday. “If you’ve hurt him. If Christophe has—”

“Oh, do stop being so theatrical. Did you really think I would waste my time on that piece of crud when I’ve a castle to storm, not to mention a throne to reclaim?”

“I thought—”

“Pah! You think too much, Robin. The only reason I took him was because you made a fool of me yesterday, letting me think that—” 

Richard presses his lips together, unsure perhaps how much my gang knows about what went on yesterday.

“Oh, don’t worry,” he says. “I gave Christophe a damn good spanking, metaphorically speaking, and sent him off to meet the rest of my army, who should be almost here by now. They have the trebuchets and battering rams. Even though my cowardly brother is no longer in residence, as it were, I thought it best to be prepared. It’s quite a formidable castle, after all, and I’ve heard that its occupants have been told to hold it at all costs.”

“With such a mighty force, Your Highness, I’m surprised you need me at all.”

“As I told you yesterday, you might come in useful should we need to find a way into the castle other than by the front door, so to speak. I also wanted you because you are a leader of men and, God forbid that I should fall, you are the man I would choose to lead my forces to victory. However, we will talk of this later. Right now, I can see that I should let you and your men rest. Although, not just men.” He looks Rowena up and down. “I see you haven’t completely lost your taste for the female form, eh, Robin. And to whom might you belong, my pretty one?”

“I belong to no one, sire.”

“Indeed?” 

“I joined up with Robin and—”

Richard holds up a silencing hand. “Spirited, like the last one. But no nobility in you, I think, that you would address your king without permission.” 

“Forgive me, sire. I thought you were asking me a question.”

“Impudent, too. No wonder she’s with you, Robin. Perhaps this is what causes her to forget her manners. It happens to the most well bred, does it not?”

Richard fingers his bruised jaw. My hand tightens around my bow. 

“Take these . . . _outlaws_ to the provisions’ tent,” the king orders one of his bodyguards. “See that they have something to eat and drink. No, just you three.” He motions to John, Allan and Much. “The girl stays. She pleases the eye, and God knows I could do with something better to look at than Locksley’s disapproving face.”

Much gives me a worried look.

“It’s fine,” I say. “I’ll be with you shortly. Go eat.”

Perking up at the thought of something more flavoursome than the dry bread in his satchel, Much nods and willingly follows the crusader, along with John and Allan.  

“We’ll talk inside,” Richard says, turning around and sweeping through the flaps of his tent.

Rowena is eyeing the king’s tent with trepidation.

“Come on,” I say, reaching for her hand. “It’s not often you get invited into the King of England’s tent.”

After a moment’s hesitation, she accepts my hand and lets me lead her inside.

“Leave us,” Richard says to a crusader standing just inside the door of the tent.

“Sire.” The man gives a brief bow and steps outside.

Richard takes off his crown, lays it on a red cushion and turns to face us. “Not quite the surroundings I’d hoped to find myself in on my return to England, but it’ll do for now.”

Despite the cramped quarters of the tent, I see that Richard has clung onto the trappings befitting a king. There is a small, sunken fire-pit in the middle of a rug-laden floor, a high-backed chair behind it. The king’s bed, complete with thick, colourful blankets, lies to one side of the tent and there is a small washstand nestling among the king’s personal effects on the other side. 

Richard crosses to a wooden chest from which he takes two silver goblets. 

“Wine?” he asks, waving a goblet at me.

I shake my head.

“Oh, come on, man. The fire’s unlit, you’re not sitting in a chair and I’m not standing behind you.” Richard flicks a glance at Rowena and I can only imagine the look of bemusement on her face. He pours himself a generous amount of wine from a flagon, places the goblet on the arm of his chair and proceeds to sit.

“I must say,” he begins, and then pauses for a mouthful of wine. “Mmm, good stuff, sure you won’t?”

Again, I shake my head.

“I must say,” he begins again, “I’d intended to give you a good tongue-lashing for yesterday’s misconduct, but now I see I must temper my words for fear of scandalising the young lady.” 

“Rowena knows.” 

“All of it?”

“All of it.”

“I see. Tell me, Robin. Do you bring all your friends into your confidence; tell them all your dirty little secrets? Or just the privileged few?

“No, of course you don’t,” he says, when I don’t answer. “At least, not without good reason. But perhaps the little lady found out by accident? I guess there is damn little privacy in an outlaw’s hideout?”

Rowena finds and squeezes my hand; I guess in sympathy, but also, I suspect, warning me to hold my tongue.

“Of course,” Richard continues, “the good people of Nottingham don’t know. And even if they did hear of it, I doubt they’d believe that the estimable Robin Hood is capable of such immoral conduct.”  Richard takes another couple of mouthfuls of wine. “Oh, for God’s sake, don’t look so worried.  I’m hardly going to spill the beans, am I?”

I think of Prince John’s guards who came across us while we were out riding. I can’t be certain that they did not see me kissing Guy. And there is Matilda as well. She swore she’d not tell a soul and I believe her, but she’s not one to keep things from her daughter, Rosa, and I’ve no idea how good Rosa is at holding her tongue. Added to that the number of weeks Guy has been a supposed guest in my house, it is highly likely that my secret will someday see the light of day. Richard keeping the knowledge to himself is only stalling the inevitable it seems to me.

“So, pray tell me,” Richard says, turning his attention to Rowena. “How did you come to be caught up with this scoundrel?” 

“A happy accident, Your Highness. I was in the service of your brother, Prince John.  When I saw the suffering he was inflicting on the . . . I’m sorry, sire. I should not speak badly of your kin.”

The king laughs. “Why ever not? I do.”

Rowena lets go of my hand. Out the corner of my eye, I see her nervously smoothly her skirts. She makes a small high-pitched moan.

“My dear girl,” the king says. “You’re looking a little pale. Perhaps life in the forest does not suit.”

Rowena clears her throat, says, “I don’t live in the . . . that is I—”

Richard chuckles. “I do believe I should offer you a cup of water. Better still, a bucket perhaps.”

I turn to Rowena. She has a hand clamped over her mouth. 

“Are you all right?” I ask.

Eyes widening, and with a pained, “Sorry,” she lurches towards the tent flap.

“Stop her!” Richard commands, clearly amused.

The crusader standing guard outside the king’s tent rushes in, smacking into Rowena as he does so. “Sire, I—”

The guard recoils as the contents of Rowena’s stomach splashes onto his boots.

Richard guffaws. “Guess it’s too late for this.” He holds up a bucket that I suspect has only one use. 

Rowena heaves a couple more times, though it appears there is nothing left to come up.  Straightening up, she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and turns to face me. She is crying.

“You’re still unwell,” I say. “Why didn’t you tell me? You could have stayed at the camp.” I take a step towards her.

“Stay where you are, Robin,” Richard warns. To the disgusted guard, he says, “Take the unfortunate girl to join the other outlaws.”

The crusader bends down and picks up the woollen shawl that has fallen from Rowena’s shoulders. He wipes his bespattered boots with it and then flings the soiled garment through the tent flap. “Come on,” he says, snatching hold of Rowena’s skirt.

With a tearful, “I’m sorry, Robin,” Rowena lets the irate guard drag her outside.

“So, Robin,” Richard says, pouring himself more wine and spilling it in his mirth. “Your men have been playing, I see. Or . . .” He gives me a penetrating look. “Maybe it wasn’t your men?”

_You’re looking a little peaky. Just winter ailments._ Oh God, not unwell at all.

“I think you should sit down.” Richard sits his wine on the arm of his throne-like chair, picks up a small stool and places it in front of me.

I plonk onto it, dazed.

“You didn’t know, did you?” Richard says.

I shake my head, unable to speak. 

“Oh, Robin, Robin. You know, I was looking forward to us being alone, so I could give you a hard time if nothing else. But something tells me you’re going to have a hard enough time without me adding to your already considerable woes.”

Richard lays a hand on my shoulder in a, possibly genuine, gesture of sympathy. I shrug away from his unwelcome touch.

“How did you know?” I ask.

“What, that the girl is with child? Robin, I may have a penchant for men, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t been with a woman or two in my time. I saw the way she caressed her stomach just before she made such a, how should I put it, _forceful_ impression on my guard.  And I also saw the way she looked at you. It’s yours, isn’t it?”

_Two times. Once on top of Guy’s leathers and the other time in my bed._

“Here.” Richard presses a goblet into my hand. “You look as if you could do with this now.”

I let him pour the wine, watch as it reaches the rim of the goblet. My hand is shaking. I take a drink. Richard sits back in his chair and watches me as I continue to drink.

“Steady,” he says, “or you’ll end up in a similar state to the girl. You never could hold your drink as well as I could.” He leans forwards and prises the empty goblet from my hand. “You know, I never did expect anything to happen in the Holy Land despite the fact I always felt you’d be up for a little male-male bonding. Because you always kept a candle burning for your English rose. You always had to insist on doing the right thing. Damn near drove me to distraction. But then, in Locksley, I thought I had a chance, until that bastard stuck his sword in me.”

_Guy. I came here to rescue Guy._

“It wasn’t Guy’s fault. He misunderstood and—”

“It doesn’t surprise me, that you would bed a man,” he continues, ignoring my outburst. “But why him? Why the man who tried to kill me? This is what wounds your king.”  Richard slaps his upper chest for emphasis.

“I didn’t plan it.” 

“The same way you didn’t plan for the girl to fall for a child, I suppose?”

She said she’d come to the camp because she missed me. My guess is that she actually came to tell me that I was going to be a father but when she realised I was still with Guy she changed her mind.

“He doesn’t know about this either, does he?” Richard says. I shake my head. “You know, it will not be long before the evidence is before his eyes, unless you are planning on telling the girl to get rid of it or secreting her away somewhere. Or maybe you’ll convince him that the child is another man’s, though I know you to be incapable of telling such an outright lie.”

“You’re going to let Guy live?” I ask, ignoring the king’s suggestions about Rowena and the child. I will deal with that later. I cannot think about it now. “I don’t understand. Why the change of heart?”

“You know as well as I that I never could stay mad with you for long, Robin, even though there were times when I wanted to kick you to Hell and back. Besides, having a good argument with you was one of the best forms of foreplay I ever knew. Shame it never went any further. Still, who knows, perhaps one day, and soon, you will tire of that black-hearted traitor and find solace with the one man who has always had your best interests at heart.”

“You, you mean?”

“Why not? I am the king after all and I usually get what I want.” 

Richard’s eyes bore into mine.

“And I’m Robin Hood, and I usually get what I want.” 

“Seems to me you got a little too much of what you wanted this time.”

Ignoring Richard’s gibe, I say, “Are you going to release Guy?”

“You know, I could make things very difficult for you,” he says, sidestepping my question. “But I won’t. Because I need you. And not just for your pretty face. You and your men know the castle. I don’t. I understand you’ve broken into the damn thing more times than I’ve had hot dinners.”

“I doubt that.”

“Careful, Robin, or I might change my mind about Gisborne.”  Richard waits, letting his words sink in. “So,” he says, “do we have a deal? You help me win back my castle and in exchange your man lives?”

“Yes. We have a deal.” I make to stand and instead find myself pitching forwards. But before I hit the ground, I find Richard’s powerful arms underneath my armpits. He pulls me upright.

“At any other time,” he whispers in my ear, “I would use this opportunity for a little skin-to-skin contact. However, even I am not that cruel.”

I take a few steadying breaths and shove Richard away.

“You think me heartless, Robin. Not so. Besides, what good would killing him do? I have enough enemies without you joining their ranks.”

“You will release him?”

“Yes. But don’t go getting any ideas. I want you to help me win back my castle, and you will. You may have fallen from grace, Robin of Locksley, but if I know you at all, I know that you will not renege on the oath you swore to me all those years ago. Nor will you abandon your people. Then, of course, there is the child.”

_How am I going to tell Guy?_

“You have one week to draw up detailed plans of my castle and present them to me. By that time, Christophe will have returned with the rest of my army and my weapons.”

“And when will Guy be released?”

“He will leave with you today, before I change my mind about not having him strung up. Now, go to your friends. I will have Gisborne brought to you shortly and you shall have horses for your return journey. Oh and, Robin?”

“Yes?”

“Take this with you.” Richard reaches behind his chair and produces a sword. It is Guy’s broadsword. “See that the next time he uses this, it is digging into my enemies and not my person.”

“Your Highness.” I grasp the cool, leather-bound hilt of the sword and wonder if I might be the next in line to feel its deadly steel.

 


	23. The Right Thing

Richard’s lips twist in cruel amusement. “Are you sure you won’t come to France with me, when this castle business is over?”

My hands tighten around the hilt of Guy’s broadsword and, for the briefest moment, I have a murderous impulse to drive it through the king’s expansive chest.

“I’ll take that as a no,” he says, taking an involuntary step backwards. 

I stare at my trembling hands, gripping the deadly blade, and at the bulky silver ring on my middle finger and wonder if it would be a mistake to hand the sword back to its owner.

“Not quite the turn of fortune we had hoped for, eh, Robin?”

I tear my gaze away from Guy’s sword to find Richard staring at me almost pityingly.

“Sire?”

“My glorious crusade,” he says, raising both arms to the heavens, as though he blames them for everything that has befallen him, “turned out to be not so glorious after all. My brother plots against me. My lands and chattels in jeopardy, and you . . .”

Richard lowers his arms and takes a step towards me, as though he is about to lock me in a consoling embrace. Then he glances at the sword still clutched in my hands and thinks better of it. 

“And you,” he continues. “Lost the woman you loved, seeking comfort in the arms of a known traitor, and now this – a child. A child conceived out of wedlock by a man who has forever championed goodness and righteousness. You say you can find your way out of any tight spot. Well, I’ll be interested to see how you can work your way out of this one. Unless, of course, you were to come to France with me and—”

“No,” I say firmly. “I will deal with this.”

“Of course you will, Robin. However, know this.” Richard’s steely-blue eyes bore into mine, his earlier compassion quickly gone at my refusal to return to his side. “When it comes the time to fight, if fighting is what we must do, then I want an archer who can focus on what he must do to protect his king and win the day, and that means putting aside whatever domestic concerns you may have. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, Your Highness,” he rebukes.

The king snaps his fingers and a crusader rushes into the tent. 

“Take,” – Richard pauses, looks at me – “this _outlaw_ to his companions. Then see to organising horses for their departure.”

“Sire.” The crusader gives a quick bow and beckons me to follow him.

I pick up my bow. At the tent flap, I turn back and see the king pouring himself another goblet of wine. It looks as though tonight the mighty Lionheart plans to get deplorably drunk.

Considering my current dilemma, I wouldn’t mind doing the same.

~

John, Much and Allan are seated around a large trestle table loaded with dishes of bread, meat, cake and cheese. I notice Much’s bowl is full to overflowing and, if I weren’t in such a state, I think I’d have made some flippant remark about the dangers of an overfull stomach and jogging up and down on a horse for a goodly while.

The image of Much doing something other than simply riding reminds me of Rowena’s unfortunate retching over the guard’s boots. She is presently sitting on a stool in the far corner of the tent, wearing John’s greatcoat and looking as if she’d rather be anywhere but stuck in the confines of a small tent with four less than clean men, one of whom is the father of her unborn child.

“Have you ever seen bread as white as this?” Much sinks his teeth into a heel of bread with something approaching bliss on his face. “And this,” he splutters, picking up a piece of fruited cake. “I mean, if I were a king, which I’m not, although . . . I was a lord once.” He gives us a pointed look. 

“Oh, no you don’t.” Allan stabs a piece of meat with his dagger and waggles it at Much. “We’re not starting all that lord Much this, lord Much that stuff again.” 

“Well, who knows,” Much says. “If this castle thing goes well, maybe the king will reward us. We’ll no longer be outlaws, and Robin will have his lands back and I’ll have my—”

Allan grins, raises an arm. “Hands up anyone who thinks Much has said this before.”

“Mind you, if I were anyone at all, not necessarily a lord,” Much continues, sticking up a finger at Allan, “and I had food like this, I’d think, why bother with a gloomy old castle when you can lord it up in a tent in the forest without getting so much as a scratch on—”

“Much,” John snaps. “Shut it!” Then to me, “Are you all right, Robin?”

“Yes. Just tired. It’s been something of a day.”

John flicks his eyes at Rowena and then back at me and I have the feeling he knows I’m keeping something from them.

“Come and eat,” he says, patting the bench beside him.

I slide my bow from my shoulder, rest Guy’s broadsword against the table end and sit, staring numbly at the various dishes in front of me.

“Where’d you get the sword from?” Allan asks.

“It’s Guy’s.”

Allan crinkles his brow in puzzlement. I’m guessing that somewhere between Guy being chained and led out of the manor house and Richard’s curt dismissal of me, someone, Christophe maybe, must have found an opportunity to pick up Guy’s dropped sword.

“So what did the king have to say about, you know, Guy and stuff?”

The scraping of knives ceases, even Much pauses, a cake halfway to his mouth. My friends know why we are here, what this is really about. 

“The king’s giving us horses,” I tell them, thinking I’ll talk about the ‘stuff’ first and Guy after I’ve eaten something. I’m feeling quite faint. “Although you’ll have a hard job staying on a horse if you keep that up.” I indicate the large jug of wine, now almost empty, sitting at Allan’s elbow. 

“You’re not looking so steady yourself,” Allan says.

He is right. It was a mistake to drink such a large goblet of wine on an empty stomach.

I swipe up what turns out to be a piece of cake and cram it into my mouth. This will not do. I need to make some decisions, and the first of those is how and when I can talk to Rowena, in private.

“Horses,” Allan says. “The king’s changed his tune, hasn’t he? A while ago he would have you kissing his backside and begging a thousand pardons and now he’s giving us horses.”

“Robin.” John passes me a cup of water. “What about Gis . . . Guy? What’s the king going to do?”

I glance at Rowena. She nods as if to say it’s all right to talk about my lover in front of her despite her – correction – our predicament. 

“Guy is to be released, today.”

Allan gestures to the open doorway. “The king had better make it quick then, because today is rapidly turning into tonight.”

I look out at the darkening forest. He is right; the day is fading fast and, although we will have horses to speed our progress home, we are still unlikely to reach the camp before nightfall.

“Richard has already given the order for horses to be made ready,” I tell them. “It shouldn’t be long now.”

Rather than looking happy about our imminent departure, Much begins shovelling food into his mouth as if his life depended on it.

“Much,” John warns.

“What? I’m only eating.”

Allan grins. “I’ve seen a pig eat with better manners than you.”

“I’m hungry, that’s all. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Understand what?”

“About being hungry. I know what it’s like to be hungry. In the Holy Land, sometimes . . .” Much turns to me. “You remember, don’t you?” 

I do remember. I remember Much crying and pretending it was just sand in his eyes. I remember giving him my food and saying I wasn’t hungry. Mostly, I wasn’t. Because my hunger was for something else. It was for the woman I’d left at home and the men I was tempted to lie with, but never did.

“It’s all right,” I tell him. “Here.” I scoop up his satchel and empty the contents out. “Put some food in here, for the journey home. I can carry your stuff.”

“Thank you. At least someone understands.” 

“Do you want to eat, lass?” John asks Rowena.

“No, I’m fine. I guess I wasn’t quite as well as I thought. Later maybe.”

She leans forwards, pretending to fiddle with the clasps on John’s coat. I notice she has rolled the sleeves back more than once. 

“Perhaps some fresh air would help?” I suggest coming to my feet.

Head still bowed, Rowena gives me the slightest of nods and, clutching John’s oversized coat around her, follows me outside.

“Oi! Where do you think you’re going?”

“The girl needs some fresh air,” I explain to the crusader standing guard outside the tent.

“Not near me, she don’t.” The man points at his boots.

“Fair enough.” I place a hand on Rowena’s shoulder and guide her towards the trees edging the clearing.

“Not too far,” the crusader cautions.

I raise an arm in compliance. When I judge we are far enough away not to be overheard, I stop walking and turn to face her. She looks even slighter than usual, swallowed up by John’s greatcoat. It’s hard not to imagine that a swollen belly won’t have her toppling forwards, but then I suppose she’ll walk the way I’ve seen many a woman with child walk – that awkward, backward-leaning gait.

“I’m sorry about Richard. He tends to—”

“I think Little John knows,” she interrupts, her tears spilling freely now she is away from the gang’s scrutiny.

“I don’t see how he can know.”

“The king knew.”

“I know, but—”

“Robin, your men know we shared a bed in Locksley. I don’t think it will be too hard for them to put two and two together.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” I give her a small smile. “Much never was one for numbers.”

She returns my smile.

“That’s better,” I tell her.

“What are we going to do?” she asks.

There are spits of rain in the air. She is shivering, despite the heavy coat.

“First, we have to get you somewhere warm. You should not be out in this weather in—” I clamp my mouth, inwardly rage: why did this have to happen now and today of all days?

“In my condition, you were going to say?”

I am thinking of the manor house, of being warm, out of the wind and rain. I am thinking of the two of us, Guy and me, lying in front of the fire, lust satisfied. I am angry with him for putting me in this position, angry that he had so little faith in me that he would believe I had gone back on my word and offered myself to Richard. I am also angry with Rowena for messing up the one good thing I’ve had since Marian’s death.

“I will deal with this.”

“How? How will you deal with it?”

I look towards the king’s tent. Nearby, two crusaders are saddling horses, no doubt the ones intended for us.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask. “Why didn’t you tell me before—?”

“Before what?” she snaps, stepping away from me, as though my nearness offends her.  “Before you decided to take a man to your bed?” 

“Before now, that’s what I meant. You must have known for weeks.”

Rowena bites her lip and hangs her head, sorry for her loss of temper. “Not really. At first, I thought I was just sick or something. Then, when I did realise, I was too frightened to tell you.”

“You frightened. I find that hard to believe.”

“I may make out to be all tough and devil-may-care, but a lot of it is just false bravado, a mask I wear in order to deal with all the horrible things that life seems to throw at me.”

“Come here.” I offer her my hand. After a moment’s hesitation, she grasps my fingers and lets me to pull her closer.

The rain is getting heavier, pattering through the branches of the trees. I watch as a droplet drips from her sodden fringe onto the end of her nose.

“And then there’s him,” she says, fingering my ring.

“You told me it was safe,” I say. “When we were . . . before we . . .” I whip my ringed hand from hers.

“Robin, what’s wrong?”

“You lied to me.”

Rowena meets my accusatory glare, her brown eyes sparking in fury. “No, I didn’t. You were the one who was lying. I think you wanted Guy long before I came along. You must have. Otherwise why would you have taken up with him so quickly after we did what we did?”

She is right. How often had I imagined Guy and me, together, before that fateful day I stepped back into my house and found myself pinned against the front door, desperate for the two of us to do unspeakably wicked things to each other? Yet here is my chance to have the life I could have had with Marian, the life I should have had before Vaisey came along and destroyed it.

“You did this to trap me.”

The words are out before I’ve given them any thought, but now that I’ve said them, they make sense. It explains why she was so insistent that we forget our morals and do what we did. 

“What?” 

“You said you wanted me and you saw a way of keeping me.”

“No, I didn’t. I swear. I did want you, but I would never stoop to such a thing. I swear. I was certain it was all right.”

“Not certain enough.”

Her eyes fill with tears. She is just a young girl, younger than Marian was. I am being unfair. I told her I would pull out in time and I failed to do so. This is my fault, not hers.

I reach into the folds of the greatcoat and find her hands. They are freezing. “I’m sorry. I have no right talking to you like this. I knew what I was doing. I should have taken more care. I know how to . . . well, like I said, I should have taken more care.”

“And I’m sorry, too. Because I did lie to you, although not about my chances of falling for a child. I once told you that I didn’t want you if I couldn’t have you completely, but the truth is I loved you and I wanted you, even when I knew your heart lay with another. And yes, it did hurt when you walked away with him although I pretended that it didn’t, but I’m good at pretending. I always have been.”

“I could probably say the same for me.”

“Robin!” 

It is Allan, gesticulating from the doorway of the tent. He is pointing towards a flurry of activity at the far end of the camp and I wonder if this is a sign of Guy’s imminent release.

I turn back to Rowena.

“Look, I have to be honest when I say I’m not happy about this, but this is as much my fault as it is yours, more so probably, and I will do what I have to do to make things right.”

“How?”

“I have often dreamed of having a child.”

“Yes. With Marian.”

“Yes, with Marian, but—”

“No, Robin.  If you cannot care for me—”

“I do care for you. I cared for you almost from the moment I met you.”

“Yes, you cared for me, the way you care about all waifs and strays that come your way.   Do you remember when we were talking in Locksley, when you told me that you never give up on anybody?”

“I remember.”

“I thought you were talking about me. Now I think perhaps it was him – Guy.”

“This changes everything.”

“No, it doesn’t. You don’t love me. Am I to believe you will give him up for me?”

“A child needs a mother and father. You and I should know that more than anyone. I will see that this child is raised as it should be raised.”

“I don’t understand. Are you asking me to marry you?” 

I had been thinking of Richard’s proposal that I secret Rowena away somewhere. I had been thinking that perhaps I could find a way of staying with Guy while providing for Rowena and overseeing the raising of my child, but now that she has spoken of marriage, I realise what I have to do. 

I am sick of doing the right thing. I have been sick of doing the right thing since Marian’s death. But sometimes doing the right thing is the right thing to do.

I have to tell Guy it’s over.

 


	24. A Rock and a Hard Place

“Well?”

She’d said ‘are you asking me to marry you?’ and now she is waiting for my answer to her question.

The last time I proposed, it was a beautiful sunny day. True, comparing Marian to my bow was a clumsy and less than romantic proposal, but at least it had come from the heart and, when I had finally gone down on one knee, it was because I wanted to. Today, it is cold, grey and raining. Today, I do not have the heart to go down on one knee, nor speak any words of affection. 

“Rowena, I wish I could—” No.  I have to make this sound halfway decent. “Rowena, it would make me happy if—”

“Stop,” she says.

“What?”

“Please, Robin. Do not say the words if you cannot mean them. I would sooner you say nothing at all.”

“Things will be better,” I tell her, “when we are back in Locksley. It’s just—”

“I know,” she cuts across me, as though the moment is paining her as much as it is paining me.

I take her small hands in mine. They are wet from the rain.

“Are you sure about this?” she asks.

I stare at our clasped hands and realise I can no longer wear Guy’s ring when the day comes to slide a much smaller and daintier one on Rowena’s finger.

_Everything is a choice, everything we do._

“Yes, I’m sure. But it will have to be soon.”

“I understand. You do not want the shame of marrying a woman already carrying your child.”

“This has nothing to do with shame. If it did, do you think that I would be—”

A sharp whistle from Allan saves me from voicing the thought. It seems our horses are ready.

“Robin, it is not too late to change your mind. I have not said yes yet.”

“Are you saying you don’t want to marry me?” A despicable part of me hopes her answer will be yes.

“Well, considering you haven’t actually asked me to yet.” Noticing my puzzled frown, she says. “It’s all right. I was only joking and it was a poor joke at that. Forgive me. It’s not every day I find myself in the company of both the King of England and my future husband.”

“You are right, though,” I say, glancing towards an agitated Allan and realising there is never going to be a good moment. “If this is to be done, it should be done properly.”

I go down onto one knee. The ground is cold and damp. “Rowena, will you consent to being my wife?” Far too short, far too formal, but it is all I have.

She breaks into a hesitant smile that quickly disappears at the king’s booming guffaw.

“God’s breeches!  I’ve seen it all now.”  

I swivel round. Richard is standing in the doorway of his tent, goblet in hand.

“The Lord of Locksley comes here,” the king bellows, glancing around the camp and looking immensely pleased that he has a captive audience, “demanding the release of his personal bed-warmer and instead he ends up with a wife! You know, if I weren’t so damned drunk, I’d hold a feast in your honour, Robin.”

Richard raises his goblet at me and leans towards a nearby crusader to mumble something into the man’s ear. Even from this distance, I can sense the man-at-arms’s embarrassment.

I come to my feet.

“I guess asking the king to marry us is probably out of the question,” Rowena says, unable to suppress a happy smile despite Richard’s crude jibe.

“Is that a yes, then?”

“Yes.”

Nothing to do now but follow through. I kiss her. Her lips are soft and small. She smells of rain and Little John. I wrap my arms around her. She feels insubstantial, delicate, like a twig that might snap were I to squeeze too hard despite the bulk of John’s greatcoat.

Tentatively, she wraps her arms around me and sighs into my mouth, her breath warm and strangely sweet.

I let go of her. “We should get back to the others.”

She nods and smiles, but I can see the disappointment in her eyes. She knows my embrace was one of affection and nothing more.

~

“Not being funny, but did I miss something here?”

“Not now,” I tell Allan.

“Only, a moment ago you were talking about horses and Guy being released, and now you’re proposing to a woman. Admittedly, proposing to a man would be kind of, well, odd, but—”

“Allan!” John snaps, emerging from the tent. “Leave Robin be. He’ll explain later.”

John hands me my bow and Guy’s broadsword. He nods towards the king’s tent. “Are we to wait for Guy or what?”

Allan crinkles his brow in puzzlement. “There is definitely something I’m not getting here.”

“Now you know how I feel,” Much says, brushing cake crumbs from his shirt.

Rowena touches my arm. “Robin, do you mind if I disappear for a moment?”

“Do you want me to come with you?”

“No. Some things are better done in private, if you know what I mean.”

“Of course. Sorry.”

Rowena heads for the trees and it crosses my mind that she lied about needing to relieve herself in order to give me a chance to explain things to my friends.

“You know, don’t you?” I say to John.

“Aye, I’ve got a pretty good idea.”

Allan and Much are giving me bewildered looks.

“Rowena’s expecting a child,” I tell them. “My child.”

“God blind me!”

“Oh . . . er . . . right . . . yes. How is that?”

“Crikey, Much.” Allan rolls his eyes. “Ever heard of the birds and the bees?”

“Yes, I know that, but when did . . . oh.”

Allan grins. “And the torches are on.”

John shakes his head at the pair of them and, gently but firmly, leads me away.

“What are you going to do?” he asks when we are out of earshot of the others. He has both his arms clutched around his chest and I realise he must be chilled to the bone without his greatcoat.

“Rowena has consented to being my wife.” 

“And is this what you want to do?”

“It’s what I have to do.”

John grips my shoulders, forcing me to meet his eyes. “And what about Guy? How will he feel about it? No, don’t look at me like that. I know how much you care for him and, as much as I can’t believe I’m saying this, how much he cares for you. He will not take kindly to being told he is no longer wanted.”

“I can handle Guy, don’t worry. Right now, we have to concentrate on getting out of here in one piece. The king may be in his cups, but believe me, this is when he can be at his most dangerous. He could just as easily order us all hanged, and I’ll be damned if my friends are going to suffer because of my failings.”

“You have not failed us, Robin.”

John does not believe this any more than I do; Guy certainly won’t.

Much, Allan and Rowena walk over and join us.

“Look, there,” Much says, pointing towards the forest bordering the far end of the clearing.  

Walking, or rather shuffling, between two burly crusaders is Guy, his wrists and ankles in chains. One of his captors says something to him and Guy yanks angrily at his bonds, almost falling over in the process. From this distance, he appears unharmed. 

“Let’s go,” I say, barely able to get my words out. 

“Would you rather I wait here?” Rowena asks.

“No. We’ll go together, all of us.”

My heart is banging away inside my chest. As we walk to meet Guy, I sense the gang, along with Rowena, doing their best to hang back, if only to give Guy and me a modicum of privacy – laughable, considering at least a dozen pairs of curious eyes are watching us, not to mention the King of England.

Richard is still standing in front of his tent, his gaze flicking between Guy and me. If he thinks he’s in for a show, he’s badly mistaken. I will say nothing about Rowena to Guy until we are well away from the king’s camp.

Guy has still not seen us, intent as he is on keeping his footing in both his shackles and on the slushy ground underfoot. One of the guards holding his chains pokes him in the ribs and says my name. Guy’s head snaps up, his dark scowl quickly replaced by a look of pure joy when he realises it is indeed me. Catching my eye, he smiles that special smile that he has for me alone and, for a wild moment, I’m tempted to rush up to him, hand him my sword, point at my chest and say, ‘Here, get it over with’.

Guy’s happiness at seeing me is more than I can bear. I stop walking, my heart as heavy as his weighty broadsword, now strapped to one of the horses the king has given us.

The gang bunch up behind me, Rowena at my back.

“I’m really sorry,” she says, reaching for my hand and not finding it.

~

I don’t care that Richard has been drinking. I don’t care that he is the King of England or that we made a deal. All I know is that I want to wipe that cruelly amused grin off his face.

“Robin?” Guy’s happy smile turns to a look of confusion as I rush past him.

I am upon Richard so fast that his men have barely unsheathed their swords before I have the king’s fine-spun shirt bunched in one fist, my dagger at his throat. 

“If you breathe one word to him,” I say, nose to nose with Richard, “I swear to God, I’ll kill you, whether or not you’re capable of drawing your sword.”

At least six blades, maybe more, press into my back. I stand my ground. 

Richard, his breath laced with the fine red wine we had drunk earlier, laughs heartily. “Leave him be,” he tells his men. “After all, this might be the closest I ever get to kissing this gorgeous fellow.” 

I let go of Richard’s shirt and stumble backwards. 

The men-at-arms lower their swords and reluctantly step away.

“Robin Hood,” Richard says. “The prospect of a reunion with your lover has rendered you more incapable of clear thought than me and, I can tell you now, I’ve had more than my fair share tonight.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, still clutching my dagger.

“I mean, I want you to be the one to tell that black-leathered bastard that you’ve decided to revert to form. Hell and damnation.” Richard pulls himself upright, every inch the mighty warrior. “The man is a traitor and a murderer. I hope your rejection hurts him as much as it used to hurt me, more so.”

“I am not rejecting him.”

“No? What are you going to do, then? Start up some weird ménage à trois in Locksley? Take turns changing the baby? Ha! That’s almost worth delaying my return to France. Hell, that’s almost worth a castle.” 

Several choice oaths claw up my throat. I glance at the nearby crusaders and keep my mouth shut.

Unexpectedly, Richard sags. “Go away, Robin. Leave me to my wine and my fantasies of what could have been.” 

He lifts his goblet to his lips, curses when he finds it empty and, with a disgusted, “Pah!” spins round, pushes his bodyguards out of the way and disappears into his tent.

A heartbeat later, he shouts, “One week, Robin Hood. I’ve kept my end of the bargain; make sure you keep yours.”

Boot-draggingly weary, I make my way back to the middle of the clearing. Guy is alone, his gaolers having joined the other men-at-arms. Rowena and the gang have gone to stand beside our waiting horses.

Guy rubs his wrists. There are red marks where the iron bracelets have chafed his skin.

He looks up at me, still a little incredulous, I think, that I have actually come for him.  Hesitantly, he lays a hand on my arm. I don’t have the heart to brush it away, but he must have seen my discomfort as he whips his hand from my sleeve with a mumbled, “Sorry.”   

“Later,” I tell him, so only he can hear, and then curse inwardly, because there can be no later, there can be no later ever again.

Guy asks, “What was all that about, with the king?”

“Nothing. A misunderstanding.” 

“We’re getting quite good at those, aren’t we?”

“We should get going,” I tell him. “Before Richard changes his mind about letting you go.”

Without waiting for Guy’s response, I turn around and stride towards my friends and the saddled horses. However, when I reach them, I realise that we are one horse short. Whether this is a deliberate slight or not, I don’t know; I am certainly not going to demand a further one. In fact, I’m almost tempted to snub Richard’s fine gesture and leave the horses behind, but one look at Rowena’s pale face is enough to convince me otherwise.

I tell her to double up on Allan’s horse.

“But, I thought—”

“Please,” I mouth.

With a daggered look at Guy, she turns her back on me and goes to stand beside Allan. Allan looks as if he’s about to make one of his witty remarks, but one long, hard glare from me is enough to make him think twice.

“I didn’t think you’d be this quick to replace me,” Guy says, indicating Rowena. 

A jolt of fear pierces my chest, until I realise he means as a gang member. 

“She knew where the king’s camp was,” I explain. 

“Oh, I see.”

Allan swings into his saddle and pulls Rowena up behind him. She slides her arms around his waist.

“Her hair is longer,” Guy says.

“What?” My attention is on Richard’s men, still hovering, some with weapons drawn.

“It was short when I last saw her.”

I mount my horse, a splendid bay. It reminds me of the horse I deliberately got shot of during my frantic flight through the forest, pursued by Prince John’s guards. For a moment, I wonder whether this is the same horse, but a quick inspection of its hindquarters tells me otherwise. I take up the reins and adjust my seat. Then, with a final glance at the king’s tent, I give the signal to move off. 

~

The forest is cold and gloomy, made more so by the coming night and soon Much organises a lit torch, which Rowena carries, so we can see the path easier.

I am riding directly behind her and Allan, followed by Much, John and, at the back, Guy. I had arranged it that way deliberately: I did not want to make small talk with Guy with my impending marriage hanging over my head. He seemed to either not notice or mind. Perhaps he, too, preferred that we did not speak to each other until we had some privacy.

When we reach a fork in the track, I call a halt. I ride up beside Allan and tell Rowena that she must return to Clun and that I will come as soon as I have made things clear to Guy.

Fearfully, she glances back at Guy and at the sword now hanging from his hip. “Are you sure that he will not—”

“No matter what you think of him,” I interrupt, keeping my voice as low as possible, “he is no longer the killer everyone says he is.” 

Rowena looks doubtful. She has heard enough stories of the things he’s done; she knows what he is capable of.

“He will not hurt me.” I shift uncomfortably in my saddle, recalling the ugly slash on my thigh, now healing nicely. “He has changed.”

“People do not change,” she says. “And certainly not someone who has spent the better part of his life hurting other people.”

Allan, quiet during this exchange, decides to speak. “Look, not being funny, Robin, but she’s right. It could be dangerous, not to mention fatal, for you to go off with him on your own.”

“I know what I’m doing. Now, mind your own business and just do what I’m asking you to do. See Rowena safely back to Clun, stay there yourself tonight as it’s late; you can return to the camp tomorrow.” I lay my hand on Rowena’s skirts. “When things are sorted, I will come to Clun and we can make arrangements.”

“What’s the hold up?” Guy shouts, clearly agitated by the delay.

“Go,” I tell Allan.

“Are you sure that—”

“Go.” It is both an order and a plea.

With a mouthed, “Be careful,” Allan clicks his horse and he and Rowena take the left fork towards Clun.

Wheeling my horse around, I join Guy.

“Allan’s taking Rowena back to Clun,” I explain. “You and I will go to Locksley tonight. There are things I need to do there.”

Guy smiles, obviously pleased with this arrangement.

“It’s all right for some,” Much grumbles. “Allan gets to spend the night in Clun. You two get to spend the night in Locksley. What do we get?” He indicates John. “A lousy, cold, muddy camp, with a roof that leaks.”

“Just ride,” John says wearily. Then to me, “Look after yourself.”

“I will. And John?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.” 

“For what? I haven’t done anything.” 

“You kindly gave Rowena your coat. You must be half-frozen.”

“Nothing a cold, muddy, wet camp won’t set to rights,” John says, glaring at Much. 

“When I am a lord,” Much says. “When I am a lord—”

“Aren’t we going to know it,” John growls.

~

With everyone gone, it crosses my mind that now would be a good time to tell Guy about Rowena and give him the opportunity to have it out with me here in depths of the forest. But, almost immediately, he starts telling me about his time in captivity, how frightened he’d been when he thought Christophe might come for him and then, when he knew he was safe from Christophe, how he sat and plotted his escape. He almost managed it as well, when his captors let him duck into the trees to relieve himself. But they’d quickly caught him, after which he had to suffer the indignity of them watching his every bodily function.

When he has finished telling me this, doubtless thinking my silence is through tiredness or simply the desire to listen, we have reached Locksley and my chance to end things away from the manor house has passed.

After stabling the horses, we enter the hall. Guy makes to go upstairs as it’s well past our usual bed time, but I tell him that I want to talk to him and motion him to take a seat.

“This sounds serious,” he says.

He slumps into one of the fireside chairs. I am wondering whether he still has the blade he usually keeps hidden in his boot, as well as the curved palm-dagger he keeps tucked up his sleeve.

Guy eases off his boots and massages his stockinged feet. The dagger is not there.

“The bastards made me strip,” he says, as if in answer to my thoughts. “Until you turned up, all I had on was my undergarments and a scratchy blanket. When they gave me my clothes and told me that the king was releasing me, they didn’t give me back my weapons. They told me you’d come to get me out, but I didn’t believe them. I thought it was all a sick joke and that the king was about to hang me from the nearest tree.”

“Surely you knew I’d come.”

He shrugs. “I couldn’t be certain. I had no idea what you two spoke about while I was sitting upstairs, listening to the rain. For all I know, you promised the king—”

“I did not promise Richard anything, except my loyalty.”

“Loyalty!” Guy leaps up. “How dare you speak about loyalty when one moment you’re promising me you will get rid of the king as soon as possible and the next you’re letting him run his hands through your hair?”

“I told you, I thought it was you. I told you to trust me. Instead, what do you do? You come thundering down the stairs brandishing that bloody great sword of yours.”

“You’re one to talk. What was that stunt with the king about earlier?”

“What stunt?”

“You. Dagger to the king’s throat.”

“I told you. It was a misunderstanding.”

“No.” Guy is shaking his head. “It was more than that. You don’t threaten the King of England without good reason.”

“You did,” I counter.

“God in Heaven! How many more times do I have to say I’m sorry?”

“Once would be a good start.”

Guy opens his mouth, quickly shuts it. He strides towards the dining table. He picks up a large pewter goblet and, for the space of a heartbeat, I think he is about to hurl it at either the wall or my head. Instead, he stares into its depths and then places it carefully back on the table before turning to me.

“I’m sorry. All right. I’m sorry. Now, can we please stop this ridiculous argument. I thought you came to rescue me because you wanted me here, with you, not so we would end up at each other’s throats. Unless you’re after another filthy fight, perhaps?”

An image of a bloody knife, wine-stained floorboards and a wall that knows me more intimately than any wall should, dances before my eyes.

“I came to get you because I didn’t want Christophe chopping you into little pieces.”

“And that’s it? That’s the only reason?”

I know what he wants to hear. But it’s never going to happen – not now.

“We both know what Christophe is capable of. I may not like that you threatened the king, but I do have a heart.”

“Not as big a one as I previously thought.”

“No,” I agree, thinking of my poor excuse of a proposal to Rowena and that, like Marian, I’m about to bring Guy’s world crashing down.

“This is about Marian, isn’t it?” His eyes fill with tears. He blinks them away. “When I rushed at the king it reminded you of Acre, of what I did. And no matter how much I try to make amends, you are never, ever going to let me forget that.” 

With a harsh, choking sob, he turns away and places his hands on the table, as if for support. “I thought we had something,” he croaks. “I thought you cared for me, really cared. But you don’t. You’re just like her, using me for your own ends.”

This anguish, this emotional outpouring, is not what I want. I want Guy to be angry because I want to be angry – angry enough to spit out the truth. Most of all, I want him not to want me any more. Now it is clear I am everything he wants, just as Marian once was. 

“This is not about Marian.” I take a couple of steps towards him.

“It is always going to be about her. I should have known. I should have known it wouldn’t last. I should have known that—”

He whirls around, eyes blazing.

“It’s the girl, isn’t it? Rowena. You know I always wondered what became of her. One moment she was there in your gang and the next gone, just like that.”

“You know why she left.”

“And I also knew you’d get tired of me one day. Tired of us, of this.” He holds out both arms, as if to encompass the house and everything in it. “And then one day I’m gone, and suddenly there she is, ready and willing to take my place. That’s if she hasn’t taken it already?”

Guy has given me the opening I need. Perhaps I don’t even have to mention the baby, simply let him think I have reverted to form, as Richard put it. 

However, as I stare at him, at the man I’ve shared my bed with these past weeks, the man whose body I know more intimately than any woman I’ve held, caressed, loved – even Marian – I find the truth slipping away. 

“Rowena took us to the king’s camp, that’s all. She has not come to my bed and she is not a part of the gang. Not any more.”

Guy looks at the dining table, at the window ledges and, finally, at the wide mantel, as if searching for evidence of a woman’s touch.

“I don’t believe you. I think she reminds you of Marian. I think she batted her big brown eyes at you and you saw your chance to escape our relationship. Because you’re afraid of this getting out, afraid of besmirching the name of Robin Hood and everything that name has come to stand for. And you don’t want me enough to leave Nottingham or your grateful peasants or your precious gang. You’d rather we ended instead.”

He glances at his sword, leaning by the fire’s hearth.

_Pick it up_ , I think. Pick it up and come at me with it. I’ll draw mine and with any luck we’ll both kill each other and put ourselves out of our respective misery.

“Ever since the boat,” he says. “Ever since the day you came to my rescue when I would have surely drowned, I knew I wanted you. At first, I thought it was because you could give me back my pride, save me from myself. But then, in France, when I saw it could be more than that . . .”

Guy moves, not towards his sword as I expected, but towards the door. He would have made it too, if I hadn’t rushed forwards to block his way.

“Guy, please. I can explain. Not easily, but I can explain.” I grab a handful of sleeve. “I need to tell you—”

“Don’t you fucking touch me.” He whips his arm away. “You’re a bastard, Robin Hood. A fucking bastard. I should have killed you on the boat, when I had the chance.”

“Well, go on then!” I place a flat hand on his chest and shove him backwards. “Go pick up that damn sword of yours. Go on!” 

“Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? Vaisey’s lackey, showing his true colours, doing what everyone expects, resorting to bloodshed. Well, fuck you, Robin.” 

Guy renews his quest for the door and I wonder if now is a good time to tell him he’s not wearing any boots. 

He is quick, but I am quicker. Sending my sword skittering across the stone floor, I lurch backwards until my back hits the sturdy oak door. If he decides to kill me after all, I’m at his mercy.

“Get out of my way. _Hood_.”

It occurs to me that I should just let him go, but I can’t bear the thought of him thinking the worse of me.

“No.”

Guy raises a fist. “Get out of my way or I’ll put this where it’ll hurt the most, and believe you me, you won’t be able to fuck the mouth of a river let alone a woman’s slit when I’ve finished with you.” 

“Go on, then,” I say, my hands dangling at my sides. “Do your worst.”

A heartbeat goes by, two, three. Guy looks at his fist as if he can’t believe what he’s doing. He lowers it and gives me an anguished look.

“Robin.”

Not outlaw, not Hood, but Robin.

I want him. Here. Now. Against this door. The way we did – almost did – all those weeks ago up against the front door of the house: mouths and tongues and desperate longing. 

“Guy, we can’t do this. I can’t do this.”

“Yes we can,” he says, moving towards me. He slides his arms around my waist. I don’t resist. “Yes you can. I don’t know what that whore promised you, but I am going to remind you just how good we are together.” 

His lips brush mine, featherlike. A helpless whimper escapes my mouth. He kisses me again, harder, and I invite in his tongue. I can feel his arousal, and mine. The wooden door is digging into the back of my head. He moves his hands to the front of my breeches and starts to unlace them.

I should tell him about Rowena, stop this madness.

I don’t.

 


	25. Secrets and Lies

“Here.”

Guy guides my ringed hand into his leathers while furiously working them off with his other hand. My fingers touch his hardening flesh.

“You want this?” he asks.

“You know I do.”

“Not the girl?”

“Not the girl.”

“Good.”

My knife-belt hits the floor. Unlaced, my breeches fall obligingly to my boot tops, while Guy’s leathers cling stubbornly to his thighs. I help him pull them down. Undergarments drop. Eager fingers find my ball sack. Hard up against the door, I cannot move. Guy realises and makes small rocking movements. 

Booted, I am closer to his height; even so, I still have to rise onto the balls of my feet so we are hip to hip. I close my eyes and clutch his upper arm with my free hand, for support as much as anything.

_Not the girl._

The girl has a name, it is Rowena, she is carrying my child and she is going to be my wife. 

“Let’s do ourselves,” he says. “Watch each other.” 

He pulls away from me. I stare into his eyes, dark with desire, and nod. 

_One more time_ , I think. One more time with Guy and then I will tell him.

“Shirts off,” he says. 

I tear my shirt over my head, curse as it tangles with my tag. _We are Robin Hood._ I don’t know why I still wear it. The tag joins my shirt on the floor. 

Guy rips off his doublet, shirt and undershirt. He kisses me – a deep, hungry kiss.  I return it, equally hard. 

_Don’t you two ever eat? Only each other._ Much and Allan.

It is the sweetest taste – dark, seductive; it tastes of those freezing nights in the Holy Land, lying in my tent, replaying in my head the knights’ filthy talk of men with men.

Guy eases away slightly and presses his forehead into mine. His long hair is tickling my chest, his increasingly fast breaths chasing my own.

I look down at what we are doing. My hand mirrors his. When Guy speeds up so do I; when he slows, I do likewise. My silver ring slides back and forth. I should never have put it on. I should never have kissed Guy in the forest. 

Please, God, I silently implore, not sure if I’m praying for my damned soul or the fact I’m about to spill. 

Guy jerks and beats me to it. 

~

“Bed?” he asks.

Twelve paces to reach the foot of the stairs, seventeen stairs. I have that long to gather my wits, tell him about Rowena and face the consequences. 

“Bed,” I say.

I let go of Guy’s upper arm; there are red marks where I’ve clung on. I follow the length of his arm down to his wrist. The welts left by the iron bracelets are still there.

Heedless to the mess running down his thighs, Guy pulls up his braies and leathers. “Thank you,” he says. He slides warm arms around my back and pulls me in for a kiss. 

My legs are freezing. I push him away.

“We should move away from the door,” I tell him.

I am thinking of the gang. If they start having second thoughts about letting me go off with Guy, I certainly don’t want them finding me like this, and especially not now they know I’ve asked Rowena to be my wife. The friendship I have clawed back with them these past few weeks would be destroyed in an instant. They’d never talk to me again, let alone trust me.   

Guy nods. He bends down and scoops up his undershirt, shirt and doublet. As he straightens, he says, “You lied to me.”

“What?” My heart speeds up. I realise I can’t run with my breeches and braies still around my ankles.

He lightly touches my stitched thigh. “You said I only nicked you.”

Relief that I’d misunderstood his comment about me lying to him floods through me, making me almost lightheaded.

“It wouldn’t stop bleeding. That’s all.”

He gives me a suspicious look. “Who stitched you? When?”

“I did it myself, the same night.”

“You should have told me. I could have done it.”

“You were asleep. I didn’t want to wake you.”

“What I said earlier,” he says. “About you not having a big heart. I didn’t mean it. You’re one of the most generous people I know. I suppose you wouldn’t be with me if you weren’t.”

God, he’s making this hard for me.

“I didn’t trust you to not make a botch of the stitching,” I say, hoping levity might dissuade him from being so damned nice to me. 

He gives me a cheerful punch on the arm. “I’ll go up. Don’t be long.” He picks up his scabbard and sword on the way.

I watch as he pads up the stairs, his pale back a stark contrast to his black leathers and his long dark hair. Soon, Rowena will be climbing those stairs, panting with the effort.

It is late and I am tired, too tired to have it out with Guy tonight.

I pull up my braies and breeches, snatch up my shirt and guiltily sling my tag around my neck. I pick up my knife-belt, start to wind it around my waist, change my mind and hang it across the back of a chair. 

Wearily, I make my way upstairs.

~

I pull the heavy curtain aside, expecting to find Guy by the washstand. Instead, he is sitting on the edge of the bed, still half-dressed. Even in the dim light of a single candle, I can see the dagger he is holding. I’d forgotten I wasn’t the only one of us to keep a blade tucked under his pillow. So much for me hiding mine under the bed as a precaution against him attacking me with it.

Guy twists around to face me.

I am wearing boots, I am quicker than he is, and I am going to get very cold, very quickly, if I make a run for it.  

He looks me up and down. “You’re like everyone else, refusing to trust me, expecting nothing but the bad.” He tosses the blade into the air and expertly catches the hilt.

“I thought . . .”

“I know what you thought. You thought I didn’t believe you, about the king, about the girl. Must I spend the rest of my life saying sorry?”

“No, of course not. It’s just—”

“I was angry earlier, spoke without thinking. I know there will never be any other girl for you apart from . . .”

He looks down at the dagger.

“Marian,” I finish. 

“Yes, Marian.” He sighs and then tosses the dagger from hand to hand, catching it neatly. “I was wondering whether it will fit inside my boot or not.”

“Oh?”

He slides the blade back under his pillow.

“No good?” I query.

“Hilt’s too wide.”

“I could buy you another one.”

“Steal one, don’t you mean?”

“Once a thief . . .”

“Always a thief. I’m surprised I have anything of worth left. I’m sure if you thought there was money to be made in soft leather goods I’d be running around wearing next to nothing.”

I look him up and down, as though considering.

Guy shakes his head, gives me a long-suffering smile. “You’re impossible, do you know that?”

“So I’ve been told,” I say, thinking of Much.

He pats the bed. “Are we going to spend the rest of the night discussing weapons and your prowess as an outlaw or are you coming to bed?”

Without waiting for an answer, he stands and crosses to the washstand in the far corner of the room. While he is busy with water and cloth, I hook my tag over the bedpost, toss my shirt onto a nearby chair, sit on the edge of the bed and ease off my boots. Now for the tricky part.  

I have always slept naked, and especially since starting this thing with Guy. He soon started sleeping that way, too; after the things we get up to, it would be ridiculous not to. However, wearing no clothes often leads to temptation, and I am not going to play any more sex games with Guy tonight. I am going to go to sleep and, in the morning, I am going to tell him about Rowena.

Guy splashes his face, spits cold water. Not bothering to dry himself, he pads back to the bed, works off his leathers and slips out of his braies, all the while smiling that slightly lascivious smile of his as he watches me watching him. He flips back the heavy blanket and I do the same on my side. 

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” He indicates my breeches.

Think, Robin, think. I glance at the restored bedside table, on top of which sits the little pot of grease and, next to that, Guy’s black leather gloves, rarely worn these days. 

“When did you last eat and drink?” I ask, a plan forming.

Guy sits, pulling the blanket over his bare legs. “They gave me some dry bread this morning. That was all.”

“How about I go find us something now, then? You must be starving.”

“What, at this hour?”

“Why not?”

“I’m really not that hungry. Besides, I doubt we have much in the way of food. Elisabeth seems to have abandoned us.”

Another stab of guilt runs through me. I’d meant to visit her family to check all is well. As Robin Hood, I am currently a complete failure.

“What about some wine, then?” I say. “I know I wouldn’t mind a drink.”

I am thinking that a decent amount of wine might knock us both out and that would solve any naked temptations on his or my part.

Guy licks his lips. I can see the idea pleases.

“All right. But don’t be long otherwise the sun will be up before we know it.”

I go downstairs, fetch wine and goblets but, more importantly, my knife belt; there is no point in not preparing for the worse.

~

I take as long as I dare in the hope that by the time I return to our bedchamber Guy might have fallen asleep. Instead, he is standing in front of the shuttered window, muttering to himself.

“What is it?” I ask.

“One day,” – he fiddles with the worn blanket that plugs the missing board – “you will fix this blasted thing.”

I let the ‘you’ reference pass. 

The blanket falls onto the floor. Guy curses and kicks it away. He pushes open the shutters, tucks his hair behind his ears and stares out into the night.

I go and join him at the window. Perhaps now would be a good time to tell him about Rowena. After all, there is no point in putting off the inevitable.

Beyond the stables and barns, is a small wood. Directly behind that is a grassy incline and, way in the distance, Sherwood Forest. The trees are whipping back and forth. Ash-grey clouds are scudding across the night sky, the pallid moon winking in and out.

Guy finds my ringed hand and laces his fingers through mine. It is a comfortingly familiar gesture and one I would normally welcome. Not tonight, however.

“Guy. I think we . . . I mean I, ought to—”

“Do you think the villagers know,” he interrupts, “about you and me?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You know, sooner or later tongues will start to wag; this charade of me being here as your guest must be wearing thin, especially with some of the more mistrustful peasants.”

I could lie. Tell him that those mistrustful peasants have guessed the truth and threatened to expose us. I could tell him that he was right about what he said earlier, that I do not want the name of Robin Hood dragged through the mud. In an ideal world, he’d believe me and go. But this is not an ideal world and he would be just as likely to push me through the open window. I don’t fancy my chances of surviving the fall or at least not suffering a broken bone or two.

Hair blowing about his face, Guy leans out to pull in the open shutters.

“Storm’s coming,” he says, wrestling the shutters closed and helping me secure the blanket.

I turn to the bed, the bed I will one day share with my wife, Rowena. 

“I know,” I say.

Guy waves towards the bed. “Shall we?”

_Tomorrow_ , I think _._ I will tell him tomorrow.

We walk to our respective sides of the bed, and I am back to the tricky part. Guy sits, leaning against the headboard, waiting for me to finish undressing.

“How about that drink,” I say, picking up the jug of wine, “to celebrate a successful rescue?”

“I’d hardly call it a rescue, Robin, considering the king let me go.”

I pour two goblets of wine. Guy all but snatches one out of my hand and drinks greedily. I know how he feels. Directly after Marian’s death, we both drank more than our fill. And even though that terrible time is past, the desire to block out the memories is still strong in each of us.

“To us,” he says, touching his half empty goblet to mine. 

To avoid replying, I gulp a generous mouthful of wine, almost choking on it.

“You know,” he says. “Sometimes I look at you and I wonder what it would have been like if we’d grown up together, if I hadn’t been forced to leave Nottingham?”

“We’d probably have been at each other’s throats all the time,” I tell him. “We never could see eye to eye.”

“Funny that we can now.”

“Yes. I’m still trying to work out how that happened.”

“I guess we wouldn’t have done this though?” He pats the bed. 

“No, probably not.” 

“Are you sorry?” he asks.

“About what?”

“About this, about us?”

“I try not to think about it.”

“Really?”

“Guy, in case you hadn’t noticed, it’s late and I’m shattered.”

“Sorry. I was just wondering.” 

He downs the last of his wine and turns to me, a wicked grin on his face. “Is there some more of that?” He points at the jug.

“Plenty. But you’re on your own. I need to sleep.”

“Shame. Only I was thinking that with enough of this inside us, alongside a jug or two of water, we might have a bit of fun.” He slides his hand tellingly between his legs. 

“Guy,” I say, clamping down on the urge to leap up and shout, _I fucked Rowena and now she’s having my baby and we’re going to get married and you can bugger off_ , “I am not in the mood to play your sordid little games tonight. Apart from anything else, my cut leg is hurting.”

“Fair enough.”

I lie down and Guy does likewise, pulling the blanket up to our shoulders.

“Why does Christophe have it in for you?” he asks.

God’s teeth! Of all the nights for Guy to be in one of his talkative moods.

“Christophe has always hated me.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m everything he isn’t.”

Guy runs his fingers through my chest hairs and then rests his hand in the hollow where my tag would normally lie. “I used to hate you for the same reason.”

“I know.”

I turn over and face away from him, praying that sleep quickly claims the both of us.

Guy snuggles into my back, fitting his knees into the backs of my knees. “We’re all right, aren’t we, Robin? Only you seem troubled tonight, on edge.”

“I think I have every right to be, don’t you?”

Guy drapes a heavy arm across my rib cage and finds my ringed hand. “You’d tell me if we weren’t, wouldn’t you?”

Here’s my chance to confess. Instead, I keep quiet, staring with tear-dimmed eyes at the dressing room door. Behind that door, I longed to have my way with Guy and I poured all that longing into a girl I hardly knew.

He strokes the back of my hand. “Robin, I want you to know that this means everything to me. I’m not talking about us fucking one another, although that’s undeniably good. I’m talking about me being with you, fighting alongside you, us working together for a common cause. I know I’m becoming a better man because of you. I think Marian would see the good in me now; I think she would approve of me.

Thunder rumbles, the storm almost overhead.

Guy presses his nose into the back of my neck. “What was it that you needed to tell me earlier?”

“What?”

“Earlier you said you needed to tell me something, wanted to explain something. What was it?” 

_Guy, please. I can explain. Not easily, but I can explain._

“Not now. Go to sleep. I’ll tell you in the morning.”

There is another rumble of thunder, quickly followed by the first drops of rain. Moments later, the steady tap tap becomes a boisterous drumming on the roof timbers and wooden overhangs.

“It’s not going to be easy to get to sleep with that racket,” he says.

“It’ll pass,” I tell him. 

Guy renews stroking the back of my hand, tracing his fingers along my own, pausing on my ring, that tangible piece of evidence symbolising our togetherness.

I shake his hand off me.

“Can’t blame me for trying, Robin. Even half-dressed, you’re quite irresistible.”

“Perhaps I should have worn my mail instead.”

“Unfortunately, that day is going to be upon us all too soon if everything the king says is true.”

“There may yet be a way of ending this thing without bloodshed,” I say. “I’m certain that when Richard and his army are standing outside the castle walls, the sickly sheriff and his men will change their minds about holding onto the castle at all costs and throw down their arms.”

Guy wraps his arms around me. “I’m not frightened – of dying I mean. Are you?”

“No,” I lie.

“The day I stand atop the battlements of Nottingham Castle with Robin Hood will be a proud day for me,” he says.

A tear escapes my eye, hits the sheet.

“A proud day,” Guy repeats, on the edge of sleep. He kisses my back. “Goodnight, my . . . Goodnight, my love.”

No more than a whisper, but I hear it all the same.

Moments later, he is asleep, snoring softly. 

_Everything is a choice, everything we do._ There is no way out. I have no more choice about marrying Rowena than I did about becoming an outlaw. 

I lie, wide-awake, the night slipping inexorably towards the morn.

 


	26. Too Close for Comfort

He called me his love. I turn over, sluggish from sleep, and stretch out an arm, seeking his familiar warm body. The only thing I touch is a cool sheet.

My eyes snap open and I recall the thing I should have done last night but didn’t.

The front door bangs. Something clatters onto the hallway floor. I sit, heart racing, and turn towards the shuttered window. Even though the blanket is still wedged between the broken boards, I can tell it is full morning. My heart slows. Guy hasn’t left me. He merely got up earlier, as is his wont, to take some air. Or perhaps he has gone to fetch us some victuals. It would be better if he had left me. Alas no, his scabbard and sword are still in their usual place. I still have to tell him it’s over between us.

Feet thump up the stairs. Not Guy’s.

“Robin! Master! Are you there?”

I rub my sleep-filled eyes, wondering why Much is so agitated.

“If you’ve hurt him,” Much shouts. “If you’ve done anything to him, I’ll . . . I’ll—”

“What the hell are you on about, you stupid little man?” Guy shouts back.

I slide a hand under Guy’s pillow, relieved to find his dagger still there.

Flinging the heavy curtain aside, Much half falls into the room, pulling himself up short when he sees me.

“Where’s the fire?” I ask.

“There isn’t any . . . I mean, you’re not . . . he didn’t.”

I push the knife back under the pillow. “Much, calm down. What’s wrong?”

“You’re alive,” he says, blinking hard as though doubting his own eyes. “Alive and in bed and quite possibly naked and—”

“Two out of three,” I say, flipping back the blanket.

Much turns away and then turns back. “Oh. You’re not . . .” He flaps his arms at me.

“Naked? No, I’m not,” I say heatedly. I swing my legs over the side of the bed. Then I thump across to the window and bang the shutters open. The storm has passed, as I told Guy it would, a cloudless blue replacing yesterday’s squally skies. I lean out of the window and a raw wind stings my face. I am fully awake now.

I turn to face Much. “Are the others here?”

“John is here, and Allan is . . . er . . . not here . . . and Guy is also here and . . .”

He trails off, his eyes on the bedside table, whereupon sit Guy’s gloves, the half-filled wine jug and empty goblets and the little pot of grease.

“And?” I prompt.

Much shuffles his feet. “Yes . . . er . . . right.”

“What’s going on?” I ask. “I told you last evening I had things to do here before I return to the camp.”

Much scowls. “You didn’t tell him, did you?”

I shake my head. Shivering, I move away from the window.

Much strides over to the wooden chair, the one that serves as my dumping ground for clothes, belts and coin purse. “Here.” He tosses me my shirt. “I may not like you so very much right now, but that doesn’t mean I’m happy to stand by while you catch your death.”

“Well?” he asks, tapping his foot.

I pull my shirt over my head. “Well what?”

“Well just when are you going to tell him about the baby and getting married?”

I place a silencing finger to my lips. Several heartbeats go by. I lower my finger and breathe out. Whatever Guy is doing, he is clearly not eavesdropping on our conversation.

“I had every intention of telling Guy about Rowena. It’s just that, last night—“

“Oh, please,” he says, rolling his eyes. “You are unbelievable, do you know that? I spent all last night worrying you might be lying injured in the forest or worse, and all the while you were here _not_ telling Guy about Rowena and the baby.” He plucks my knife-belt from the back of the chair and tosses it onto the bed. “You know if you weren’t my master—”

“I’m not your master.”

“If you weren’t my friend, then, I’d hit you on the head, with a spade; well, maybe not a spade because that would hurt, a lot, but with something, anything to try and knock some sense into you.”

I tuck my shirt into my breeches and buckle on my knife-belt. “Much, my friend, you do believe me when I say I never meant for this to happen?”

“What, this as in not telling Guy you’re going to get married, or this as in—”

“This as in all of it.” I sit on Guy’s side of the bed and stare out the window. At this height, I can make out the tops of the trees in the small wood directly behind the stables, as well as those of Sherwood, farther away.

Much skirts around the bed and sits next to me.

“You could not have done it,” he says, lightly tapping my ring and then whipping away his hand, as though the silver band might corrupt him by its very touch alone.

“Yes,” I say. “I could not have done it.”

For a short while, we sit in silence, the only sound that of the wind whistling between the timbers. It reminds me of the day we boarded the ship bound out of Acre, when Much sat next to me in our tiny cabin, when I gave in to my grief and sobbed into his chest. I am not sure he and I will ever find that closeness again. 

“I am sorry,” I say.

“About what? This whole being with Guy thing or about not telling him what you should have told him?”

“The last bit.”

“So, when are you going to tell him?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know?”

“I mean there were things he said last night that makes it more complicated.”

“How can it be more complicated than it already is?”

“Much, listen to me. Last night, Guy was telling me how much this castle thing means to him, what fighting alongside me, us, means to him. If I tell him about Rowena and the baby and he refuses to listen to reason, who knows what he will do. You know what a temper he has. What if he decides to tell Prince John’s supporters of the king’s whereabouts before Richard’s army arrives? What if he turns against us?”

“You don’t know that will happen.”

“No, I don’t. But I can’t take the risk.”

“So, you’re going to carry on . . . carrying on?”

“No, not like that.”

“Won’t he be suspicious, if you don’t . . . you know?”

“I’ll think of something.”

“Perhaps you could tell him his feet smell.”

“Trust me. Guy is the unsmelliest man I’ve ever known.”

“I’ll take your word on that.”

The front door bangs again and I leap from the bed. Jumping up, Much unsheathes his sword and sprints towards the curtained doorway. I rush round to my side of the bed, yank on my boots and dash after him. It is only when I reach the bottom stair that I realise I have my boots on the wrong feet.

~

John is sitting at the table, arms folded, staring at the red and gold tapestry on the far wall.

Guy is standing by the fire, arms also folded, staring at John.

“Robin,” John says.

“John. Is everything all right?”

“I don’t know. Why don’t you tell me?”

Guy clears his throat, uncrosses his arms. “Is this some private code that I’m not privy to?” He looks at John and me in turn.

I step off the last stair, wanting to do nothing more than swap my boots over and tell everyone to get lost, including Guy. “I told the gang that we need to get together so we can draw up plans of the castle to give to the king. I didn’t mean for them to come here.” I glare at John.

John points at Much. “Blame him.”

“Well _excuse me_ for showing some concern for our friend and leader,” Much retaliates.

“Robin,” Guy asks, “what’s going on?” 

“Nothing. A misunderstanding, that’s all.”

“Another one,” Guy says, pointedly rubbing his wrist.

John grunts, and I notice there is food on the table. 

“What’s all this?” I ask.

“What does it look like?” Guy says.

“Heaven.” Much scrapes back a chair and starts piling food onto a trencher.

I ask Guy where the food came from. He waves an arm towards the window and says, “I got it from some old peasant’s house.”

“What do you mean got it? How did you get it?”

“I told them that if they didn’t give me all their food, I’d snatch their children and then burn their house down with them in it.”

“Guy, you can’t just go around—”

“I told them Robin Hood was hungry and that he’d see them right,” he cuts across me. “What do you take me for?”

Much opens his mouth, as though to speak, and I shake my head in warning.

I apologise to Guy for making assumptions.

“Apology accepted,” he says. “Although I’d appreciate it if you could at least try to remember I’m one of the good guys now.”

Much reaches for some bread and John slaps his hand away.

“Ouch! What was that for?”

“We came here to talk to Robin, not to eat.”

“Well, we can eat and talk at the same time, can’t we?”

“With the amount you stuff into your mouth, I don’t think so.”

I pull out a chair opposite John and sit. “Join us,” I say to Guy, indicating the chair at the head of the table.

Guy picks up the chair and places it next to me. “Good health,” he says, raising a cup and then shuffling his chair closer to mine, so our arms are touching.

“Health, yes, right,” Much says. 

John raises a querying eyebrow at me and I mouth something to him that I hope he’ll understand, the gist being that I haven’t told Guy about Rowena yet and that he’s not to say anything either.

“Tell me,” Guy says, scowling at Much. “Exactly what did you mean earlier?”

“Earlier when?”

“When you charged upstairs like a mad thing, accusing me of hurting Robin.”

“Did I?”

“Yes, you did. Why exactly would I want to hurt Robin?”

“I . . . well, you know.”

“No, I don’t. Enlighten me.”

Much shoves a piece of bread into his mouth and chews frantically, while John looks as though he can’t decide who to be the most sorry for – Much or me.

“I’m waiting,” Guy says.

“Well you have been known,” Much splutters, “to stick your sword into some very undeserving people, and I thought that maybe you’d be angry that Robin didn’t stop the king from taking you to his camp and that—”

“That’ll do,” Guy snaps, knowing as well as any of us that Much tends to ramble when he’s nervous; most of the time, actually.

“You should eat,” Guy says, noticing my empty trencher. “I don’t want you wasting away to nothing. I need something to wrap my arms around of a night.”

John chokes and Much slaps him on the back and offers him ale.

Guy lays a hand on my thigh and quietly asks if I’m all right. I tell him that my leg is still paining me and that I have my boots on the wrong feet. He laughs at the last one.

“What?” Much asks, thinking it must be something he has done.

“Private joke,” Guy tells him.

“Talking of privacy,” John says, pushing up from his chair. “I think you and I need to get going. Much?”

“Oh, right. You mean me.” Much looks longingly at the spread of dishes on the table.

“Stay,” I say. “Both of you. There’s more food here than Guy and I can eat by ourselves.”

“Then why don’t you give it to the poor, like we’re supposed to be doing,” John says. 

Guy lays a warning hand on my arm. 

John notices, apologises and sits down.

“Well, this is nice,” Much says, slopping vegetable stew into a bowl.

“Very cosy,” John mumbles. 

A shrill yelp from outside breaks the awkward atmosphere. We all leap from our chairs.

“Trouble?” John asks, his chair crashing to the floor.

“No.” I wave him back to the table. “Just some children larking about by the pond.” 

Recalling the hidden dangers of the pond, I make for the door.

“Robin, do you—”

“I’ll deal with it,” I say, cutting Guy off.

~

Heedless of my mis-booted feet, I sprint towards the pond. Two boys are on the far side of it, perilously close to the reeds that grow at its edge. I can hear them arguing.

As I get nearer, I recognise one of the boys. It’s Joseph, the boy I rescued from the roof where he’d gone to escape the village children’s taunts. The other one I don’t know – a tall, dark-haired lad who reminds me of Guy as a youth. He is threatening Joseph with a sharpened stick.

“Lads,” I warn. “I think this game’s gone far enough.”

“Piss off!” the taller boy snarls, prodding Joseph in the stomach. 

Joseph retreats, his back foot sinking into the glutinous mud edging the pond.

“Put the stick down,” I command. “And move away from the edge. Haven’t you been told how dangerous it is to play here?”

The dark-haired boy glances in my direction. Surprised to find himself confronted by Robin Hood, he lowers the stick, but, as Joseph prises his boot from the mud, he whirls around and resumes taunting the younger boy. I notice Joseph is also clutching a stick, although a slenderer and shorter one than his opponent.

As Joseph turns and smiles at me – his saviour – the dark-haired boy sees his chance and lunges, knocking Joseph’s stick from his hand. With a self-satisfied grin and a rude hand gesture aimed in my direction, he advances on Joseph. 

“Stop!  Now!” I order. 

“Or what?” the boy says, not taking his eyes off Joseph.

“Or you’ll have me to answer to.” 

“Do I look scared?”   

“Not yet, you don’t. But believe me, when you’re kicking and thrashing about in that cold water, begging me to pull you out, then you’ll look scared.”

“I won’t need you to pull me out. I can swim.”

“I can’t,” Joseph says.

“Perhaps you’d rather answer to Sir Guy, then?” I say, instantly berating myself for using Guy’s name as a deterrent.

Looking less defiant now, although still pointing his stick at Joseph, the dark-haired boy slowly backs away.

“Good,” I say. “Now, why don’t the two of you shake hands and make up?”

Joseph gives his adversary a tentative smile and proffers a mud-smeared hand. The other boy shakes his head, scowling.

“What were you playing?” I ask, not because it isn’t obvious, but because it reminds me of the fights Guy and I used to have as children and the times our parents had to intervene to keep us from seriously injuring one another.

“What does it look like?” 

“I’m . . . er . . . Guy of Gisborne,” Joseph says. “And Roger’s pretending to be Robin Hood . . . er, you. I always have to be Gisborne.”

“I see.”

“We were having a sword fight and I was winning, until I got my foot stuck in this horrible mud.”

“You were not winning,” Roger says. “I was winning because I’m Robin Hood and Robin Hood always wins.”

“Lads, please,” I say, stepping between them. “Guy, I mean Sir Guy and I no longer fight. We are friends now. He is part of my gang. And you are wrong, Roger. Robin Hood does not always win.”

“You’re lying. Guy of Gisborne and Robin Hood can never be friends. Gisborne is a rotten, hateful man. Because of him my father lost a hand, and then his arm got infected, and then . . . and then he died.”

Biting his lip, fighting tears, Roger turns his back on me. I take a couple of steps towards him and place a soothing hand on his shoulder. He smacks it away. 

“Don’t touch me. And don’t pretend to care about me.”

“I’m sorry about your father. I wish I could change things. I wish I could bring him back.  But I can’t.”

“You could punish Gisborne,” Roger retorts, still facing away from me. “You could make him pay for the things he’s done. You could chop off his hand like he did my father’s.”

An eye for an eye. If all of his victims demanded such, Guy would be nothing more than a heap of missing limbs, mangled flesh and shattered bones.

Determinedly pushing the thought away, I say as calmly as I can, “You should know that some of the things Gisborne did, he did because the Sheriff of Nottingham ordered him to. He didn’t have a choice.”

“I don’t care. I hate him, and I wish he wasn’t here, and so does my mother.” 

Hurling his stick into the pond, Roger starts running towards the huddle of cottages at the far end of the village.

“Roger, wait.”

I catch up with the boy easily, despite my ill-fitting boots.

“Roger, listen to me. I am going to—”

He whirls around. His cheeks are wet, his blue eyes as stormy as yesterday’s skies. “You never help us any more.”

“I’m sorry. It’s not that I don’t want to. It’s just difficult. There are things happening in Nottingham. Grown up things that need not concern you, and—”

“Don’t you want to be Robin Hood any more?”

I have no answer to that. Instead, I tell him, “Sometimes people do bad things and they are truly sorry for those things. Sir Guy is trying to make amends, to atone for his crimes. I invited him into my house as my guest, and I would like it if the people of Locksley could accept that and treat him with some respect.”

“How can you like him? How can you even bear to be in the same house with him after all the things he did? Elisabeth says that . . .”

He lowers his head, mumbles something I cannot make out.

“Elisabeth says what?”  My heart starts banging against my ribs liked a wild bird trapped in cage.

“She says that you and he share a bed, just like her mama and papa.” 

“And you believe her?”

“No. She’s a big fat liar.”

I put my hands behind my back, tug at my ring. I am going to take it off, today, now. My hands are numb with cold, and the ring will not slide over my knuckle. 

“Will you teach me to sword fight?” Roger asks.

I guess he has tired of the subject of Gisborne and would sooner talk about something he can understand.

“I would rather teach you to make friends.”

“Who needs friends?”

“We all need friends,” I tell him. “I know my life would be a less happy one without mine.”

The ring finally slides over my knuckle and I drop it in the mud.  

Roger glances past me. I turn around to find Joseph at my back.

“Here.” He offers Roger his stick. “I can find another stick and I don’t mind being Gisborne, honestly.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Roger accepts the peace offering. “Thank you.” He gives Joseph a crooked smile.

“Now remember,” I tell them. “No more playing by the edge of the pond. Promise?”

“We promise,” Joseph says, Roger simply nodding.

“Good. Now go home, go make your parents proud of you.”

I shouldn’t have said parents. Roger only has his mother.

Hurriedly, I take my leave of the boys and stride towards the house. Halfway there, someone taps me on the back.

“I think you dropped this.”

Roger offers me my mud-coated ring.

“Oh. Thank you.”

He points towards the manor house. “Are they your friends?”

I turn around. Much is standing at the open window, John behind him. 

“Yes. They are my friends.” 

“Can I be your friend, too?”

“I would like that.”

“Will you come to my house one day, meet my mother?”

“One day soon, yes.”

He smiles. “Be seeing you, then.”

I watch as he runs to catch up with Joseph and then make my way to the house, sliding the muddy ring back onto my finger as I do so.

 


	27. Leaving

I came that close to arousing Guy’s suspicion that all is not well between the two of us.  God bless young Roger.

I glance at the mud-smeared ring, back on the finger it has encircled since the first time Guy kissed me. No matter what the cost to me personally, this ring will stay on my finger until we have taken Nottingham Castle. I will not risk him storming off and going back to his old ways and nor will I risk him exposing the king’s plans to the Black Knights. Guy will have his proud moment, his wish to fight alongside Robin Hood and his men, and only the death of one or both of us is going to stop that from happening.

As I step into the hallway, I hear raised voices coming from the main hall. I creep up to the shut door and put my ear to it.  

“. . . you burst into our house uninvited. You eat our food.”

“Your food!” Much retorts. “And it’s Robin’s house, not yours.”

“You make judgments,” Guy continues, “about me, about Robin. Robin made his choice a long time ago. He chose me. Me!”

It seems the moment I’m not around, the better man Marian used to talk about disappears.

“My master is not himself. He has not been himself since you stabbed . . . since the Holy Land.”

“Robin knew perfectly well what he was doing; he still does. What gives you the right to tell him how he should live his life?”

“I’ve lived with Robin far longer than you have, that’s what gives me the right. That, and the fact—”

“Much,” John warns. “Leave it be.”

“No. If Robin won’t say anything then—”

“It’s Robin’s business, not ours.”

I wait, my hand on the door latch, torn between the desire to shut them up and the desire to see how far they will go.

“Robin has lost his way,” Much says. “He needs our help because He is watching and when I go to Heaven, which please God I do, then I don’t want Robin to be—”

“Enough!” I yell, slamming the door back on its hinges. 

“Robin. We were just . . . that is to say, I was just . . .” Much swivels his head this way and that, as though looking for a place to hide or a door to run through.

“Are the children all right?” John asks.

Which children, I’m tempted to say. “They’re fine. No casualties. There might be one here very soon, though.”

I advance on Much. Cringing, he stumbles backwards. Four more paces and I am looming over him. He slams into the table, slopping vegetable stew onto the bare wood.

“Robin. I wasn’t going to tell him about . . . not about . . . only—”

Grabbing his tunic, I thrust my face into his. “You never know when to shut up, do you?” I let go of his clothing and snatch up his satchel. “Get out,” I hiss, thrusting the leather bag into his arms.

“But . . . but . . .”

“Get out or I’ll throw you out.”

I step back a pace, giving him room, clenching my hands at my sides, resisting the urge to punch him. 

Much whirls around and starts grabbing bits from the table, stuffing them into his bag and muttering about only wanting to help, to make things right. He picks up the heel of a loaf and tries, unsuccessfully, to shove it into his bag. The bread hits the floor. Laying his satchel aside, Much ducks down and crawls under the table to fetch it.

“Will you just come on,” John growls. 

I glance at Guy and he shrugs as if to say ‘it’s your show’.

Taking far longer than necessary, Much finally backs out from under the table, snatches up his satchel and thrusts the bread into it. 

“Are you done?” John asks, hands on hips.

Much nods, head down, busy buckling his bag.

John picks up Much’s sword and shield. “Here, then.” 

Wordlessly, Much accepts his weapons. It takes him three attempts to sheathe his sword and, when he finally raises his head, I see he is crying.

“Much, I—”

“Don’t you touch me,” he says, dodging my outstretched hand. “Don’t you fucking touch me.”

That stings. Much rarely uses such earthy profanities. 

“Much, I’m sorry, truly. I didn’t mean to—”

“No, you never mean to, but you always do.”

Giving me a shove, Much pushes past me and stomps towards the door. Halfway there, he stops in his tracks and, wiping his face on his sleeve, rounds on Guy.

“This is your fault. I wish Robin had left you to drown on that stupid, _stupid_ boat. I wish—”

“If it weren’t for me, you snivelling little twit, Robin would be lying fathoms deep at the bottom of the ocean.”

What Guy says is true. If he hadn’t grabbed me when he did, I would have drowned.

“Stop it,” I say. “Both of you.” 

“You don’t owe him anything,” Much says to me. “You saved his life and he saved yours. You’re even.”

“This isn’t about owing anybody anything. After Marian died, after I stopped trying to drink myself to death, I—”

“Oh, that’s right. Bring her into this. You know this has nothing to do with her and everything to do with . . . with . . .” Much flaps his hands, searching for words he doesn’t have.

“Please,” I say. “Can’t you just learn to accept things the way they are?”

“I’ve tried, Robin. I’ve really tried, but . . .”

“Would it help if I said I’m happy?”

“But you’re not, are you? I mean, you can’t be because of . . .”

“Because of what?” Guy fingers the hilt of his sword, suddenly suspicious that there is more to this than Much fretting over whether I’ll go to Heaven or not.

“I . . . er . . . I don’t know.”

Guy pushes away from the mantel, unsheathes his sword and points it at Much. “What don’t you know?”

“Enough of this!” Whipping up his staff, John steps between Guy and Much. “There will be no blood spilt here today.”  He glances at Guy, remembering perhaps the day he clobbered him on the forehead, the telltale mark still there, partially hidden by Guy’s long hair. “I don’t like this any more than you, Much, but, as I said earlier, this is Robin’s business, not ours.” Regarding me gravely, he says, “We’ll be on our way. You know where we are when you need us.”

 I nod my thanks and my friends make their way to the front door. After a moment’s hesitation, I follow, intending to have a quiet word with Much. I hate seeing him upset like this.

Two robust knocks on the front door, followed by a pause and then two more knocks, has me hastening to the inner hallway where John and Much are busy fastening their winter cloaks.

“Allan?” I call.

“No. The Pied-bloody-Piper. Who do you think? Let me in.”

John opens the door and Allan tumbles into the hallway. 

“Phew. Thank God you’re all here.”

He’s out of breath.

“Trouble?” I ask.

“Yeah. Of the Black Knight-shaped kind.”

“When? Where?” 

“Soon and here.” He straightens up, waving an arm towards the village. 

We peer outside. All seems calm. Even so, John hurriedly shuts and bolts the door.

Much looks sadly at the bagful of food clutched to his chest. “But we were just going.”

“Well now you’re staying,” Allan says.

“Tell me quickly,” I demand. “No, wait. In the hall. This concerns Guy too.”

After giving Guy a quick nod in greeting, Allan makes for the table. “God, I’m parched.” He picks up a jug of ale and takes a couple of gulps, spilling it down his front as he does so.

“Well,” I say. “Tell us what’s going on.”   

Allan takes a further swig and then says, “After I took Rowena to Clun last evening, I decided to head to Nottingham. I went to The Trip; just for something to warm me up like.”

“Someone more like,” Much mutters. 

Sticking up a finger at Much, Allan continues. “There were a few Black Knights in there.  They didn’t seem at all bothered showing themselves outside the castle walls. In fact, they were making quite a song and dance about it. Where’s the great Robin Hood now, they was saying. Hiding in the trees, ain’t he? Nah, he’s not. He’s at his manor, and not only him.  Gisborne’s there as well.”

“Is there a point to any of this?” Guy asks.

“Keep your hair on, I’m getting to it.”

“Go on,” I urge.

“Oh yeah, says another one. Thought they was enemies. Not now. All cosy like they are now, in their great big house. How cosy is cosy, they was saying. They was saying how we didn’t have any womenfolk, how Robin Hood’s woman was killed in the Holy Land, and how all you had left were your men, and . . .” 

“Allan?” I prompt.

“Sorry, getting hungry looking at that lot.  Mind if I?”

He swoops on a piece of cheese.

“Will you just get on with it,” Guy growls, flexing his sword hand.

Allan notices, hastily swallows. “Er...right. Well, I’d had a couple of drinks by then and was just minding me own business, but enough was enough. When they started insinuating that you two were . . . you know, then—”

“I hate to point this out,” I interrupt, “but they haven’t exactly got it wrong, have they?”

“Still, that’s not the point.”

Then I notice. One of Allan’s sleeves has a tear in it that I don’t remember it having and there is a cut on the back of his hand.

“You got into a fight?” 

“Only briefly. There were too many of them to take on single-handedly, so I scarpered, but not before I heard them saying that they were coming to Locksley.”

“What? Because of Guy and me?”

“Nah. That was just stupid, drunken banter. You know what it’s like when a bunch of men gets together. Before they started mouthing off about you and Guy, I heard them talking about the sickly sheriff, Murdac. Apparently, he had a brother. Anyway, this brother was the one whose head you took off when those guards came to get Rowena.”

I recall the grisly scene and the headless Black Knight, the one I felled with my scimitar in order to save both Allan and Rowena. 

“So the sheriff is coming after me for personal reasons, though why he’s waited all these weeks, I don’t know. Perhaps he was too ill before to be bothered to deal with me. Matilda did say that she’d heard he was at death’s door.”

It strikes me that Allan needn’t have mentioned the stuff about Guy and me, and I wonder if this is his way of saying serves you bloody right.

“It appears you have more enemies than me, Robin,” Guy remarks dryly.

“You said they were coming soon, Allan. How soon?”

“Today. This morning.”

Even Much can do the sums.

“You had all of last night to come and tell me this and instead you decide to come now. Where were you?” 

Allan fidgets, won’t meet my eye.

“Well?” I demand.

“I . . .  er . . . ran into this man like.”

“What man?”

“You wouldn’t know him. Anyway, he reckoned I’d robbed him of his purse. Took me ages to convince him otherwise. And then you wouldn’t believe it, but on me way here there was this nun and—”

“The truth,” I say, bunching my first.

“All right, all right. I fell asleep. Don’t hit me, Robin. I’ve got a blinder of a headache this morning.”

“You fell asleep knowing that the Black Knights were about to descend on Locksley?”

“Look, after I got away from the tavern I figured I’d better lie low for a bit, just until I was sure I could get away clear. I hid in the old brewer’s yard. You know, next to The Trip.”

“And then what?”

“Well, like I said before. I’d had a couple of drinks, maybe more than a couple, and I must have dozed off. Sorry.”

“I’ll give you sorry,” John says, pushing in front of Guy and me and looming over Allan.

“Robin?” Allan pleads.

“Leave him, John. We don’t have time for this. If the Black Knights are indeed on their way to Locksley, we need to leave – now. We can surely expect more men than came last time and there are not enough of us to risk getting into a fight with them.”

I stride across to the window. Beside the mill, I see a lone woman hanging sheets and a man with a small child clutching his leg. There is no sign of any approaching knights or men-at-arms. 

“Are you sure you heard right?” I ask, swivelling round to face Allan.

“Not being funny, but I know what I heard. Besides, when I woke up, I remembered something.”

“Remembered what?”

“It was before you came back to England. When I was nothing more than a cutpurse, living on me wits. For a while, me and Tom—” He pauses, doubtless remembering his dead brother, the man I failed to save from Vaisey’s rope. “Me and Tom had this little scheme of snagging barrels of ale from the brewer’s yard when nobody was looking. Once when we was there, we were spotted and had to make a quick exit. As luck would have it, we found this tunnel, used by the servants to transport butts of ale from the brewhouse up to the castle butteries. Anyway, I went to see if it was still there and it was, and that’s when I heard them talking about coming to get you. I heard Murdac, at least I think it was him, yelling at them to get the murdering bastard, so I ran straight here. I should have gone for me horse, but I couldn’t remember where I left it.”

Guy catches my eye. I know what he is thinking: not one but two tunnels, something the king might use to his advantage when trying to take back the castle.

“Look!” John points out the window.

Knights and men-at-arms are heading down the hill towards Locksley. Dozens of them.

“Christ!” Guy unsheathes his sword.

“No,” I tell him. “We’re leaving.”

“But they’ll see us,” Much protests. 

“We’ll go out the back, use the stables for cover and head for the forest.”

“Our horses?” Guy queries.

“No time.”

He nods and sheathes his sword.

“Bugger!” Much drops his bulging satchel onto the floor.

I lay my ringed hand on Guy’s arm. “I need my bow; it’s upstairs.”

“My knife, too,” Guys says. 

I charge up the stairs, calling to the others to get to the back of the house and leave, telling them I’ll catch them up.

Flinging the bedchamber curtain aside, I scoop up my arrow-filled quiver leaning against the wall along with my bow. Then I slide a hand under Guy’s pillow, grab his dagger and tuck it into my belt. I race downstairs. My friends have ignored my instruction to escape and instead are waiting for me in the main hall.

Much is making inane remarks about always having to leave food behind and John is shouting at him, threatening to stuff a whole marrow into his mouth if he doesn’t shut up. I can hear Guy and Allan talking, too, though their voices are quieter and I cannot make out what they are saying. 

Glancing out the open window, I see that the sheriff’s men have reached the outskirts of the village.

It’s time to leave.

 


	28. Rowena

“Running,” Much grumbles. “I hate running.”

“You’d hate getting a sword stuck in your chest more,” Allan says as we charge through the servants’ quarters, heading for the back of the house and, I hope, escape.

Just beyond Thornton’s old room is a small, shuttered window. John smacks it open and we start to clamber through. Not far away are the stables and a few yards beyond them a tangle of trees that will be difficult for the mounted knights to negotiate.

“What about the back door?” Guy asks as he watches Allan squeeze through the small opening.

“Locked, and the key’s lost,” I explain.

“And there’s me thinking this is simply your way of keeping in practice.”

Despite the witticism, I can sense Guy’s anxiety. He is not used to being on the receiving end of a chase. Little John offers him a hand through the window and I follow, throwing my bow into Guy’s waiting hands before I drop to the ground.

“Go,” I hiss, waving my hands towards the stables and the wood beyond.

Someone barks a command and there is the sound of splintering wood. The sheriff’s men are kicking down the front door.

We run.

Pelting past the stables, we dive into the cover of the wood, charging through the trees and hoping the knights won’t follow. A glance over my shoulder reveals the mounted men have indeed given up the chase. However, the men-at-arms are still coming after us.

“With me!” I shout, peeling off from the narrow track we have been following and making my own path through a tangle of brambles and thicket. I played in these woods as a boy when time was short and going farther afield to Sherwood was out of the question. I know we can get through what seems like impenetrable foliage. The sound of the pursuing men-at-arms diminishes and then disappears. Emerging from the wood, we charge across the grassy incline and plunge into the safety of Sherwood Forest.

A couple of miles into the forest, I call a halt, deeming us safe. Breathing heavily, we either flop to the ground or lean against nearby trees. I am thirsty, as I’m sure my friends are, but there was no time to grab water skins.

“I guess it’s back to the camp, then,” Allan says.

“For you lot, yes,” I say, pushing away from my tree support. “But I have somewhere I need to go first.”

“What? Where?” Much asks.

“Clun.”

“No, you can’t. We have to stay together.”

Guy comes to his feet, brushing leaves from his hair. “The Black Knights are after our heads and you want to go visiting your peasants. Why?”

I can sense my friends nervously waiting for my answer. Would now be a good time to tell Guy about Rowena and my proposal of marriage? At least with my friends here, it is unlikely he’d try to attack me. It’s only a fleeting thought, however. For the time being, I am going to keep my secret, for Guy’s sake and for the king’s.

“She told us there was sickness there and I promised I would call on the village. I will take care to avoid any of the sheriff’s men, though I suspect they’ll have headed back to Nottingham.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Allan says. “Murdac will be dead angry if they don’t come back with their prize, namely you.”

“I will be careful.”  

Before anyone can protest further, I start sprinting in the direction of Clun. Several times, I glance over my shoulder, but no one is following. Good.

As I run, I plan how I am going to explain to Rowena that our marriage will have to wait until Nottingham castle is back in the hands of King Richard.

~

I arrive in Clun a little after midday. The sky is eye-blindingly bright, but a chill wind is blowing and there are few villagers about. There are no signs of the sheriff’s men.

A broken cart and several damaged wheels lined up along a wall make it easy to recognise the wheelwright’s house. I knock and the door opens a crack.

“Yes?” Two grey eyes peer through the gap between door and frame. 

“I’m sorry to intrude,” I say. “My name is—”

“Robin!” Rowena exclaims. 

The door swings back and a huge man, with closely cropped fair hair and a similarly styled beard, immediately fills the space. 

Looking me up and down, the man says, “About time you showed up.”

“You must be Thomas,” I say, offering a hand to shake and not receiving one in return. I let my hand drop.

“And you’re the mystery man that the lass here has spent the past weeks mooning over.” He steps away from the door and waves me inside. “There’s many a man would leave a young girl in such a plight without a second thought. At least you’ve the decency to show up. Though I’d expect nothing less from you if what everyone says about you is to be believed.” 

I lean my bow inside the doorway and remove my sword. Rowena is standing in front of a blazing fire above which hangs a blackened cooking pot. Judging by the meaty aroma, I guess I have interrupted the midday meal. A rush of saliva fills my mouth. I hardly ate a thing at breakfast.

“How are you?” I ask her.

“Much better than I was when you last saw me,” she says, referring to her throwing up in the king’s tent.

“I told her,” Thomas says, wagging a finger at Rowena, “not to go charging off into that cold and horrible forest when she’s feeling so poorly, but would she listen? Still, at least she found you to give you the news. Twas only last week she told us who the father was and then only because I threatened to . . . well, it don’t matter because you’re here now.” 

Rowena lays a pacifying hand on his muscled arm. “Robin didn’t know about the baby until yesterday.”

“Tis shameful all the same, child. Because I don’t care who you are,” – he stabs a finger towards me – “What you did ain’t right. Allowing an innocent girl to believe you was the man for her and then leaving her hanging high and dry for no reason at all, other than the fact you’d satisfied your lustful needs and was on your way. I’d heard you was a ladies’ man, Robin Hood. Bound to slip up eventually, weren’t you? Still, what’s done is done. Ain’t no use crying about it.”

My stomach growls.

“Are you hungry?” Rowena indicates at whatever is bubbling away over the fire. “We’ve already eaten, but there’s plenty left over.”

“Thank you. I’m starving.”

A rasping cough startles me. It came from behind a narrow wooden door in the corner of the room. I guess it is the wheelwright’s ailing wife.

Thomas scowls and then gives Rowena an expectant look.

“I have a guest,” she says.

With an exaggerated sigh, Thomas makes for the narrow door. As he passes me, he says, “You mind your manners, young man. Just because the girl is your intended, it don’t mean you can go taking liberties. Not that you haven’t done that already, mind you.”

Rowena hands Thomas a bowl of food. “Here, take this with you. She might be hungry.”

He opens and closes the narrow door leaving Rowena and I free to talk candidly.

“I didn’t think you would come this quickly,” she says. “Surely you cannot have made arrangements already?”

“No. I haven’t.” 

“Oh, I see.” She lowers her eyes and I realise she is looking at my ringed hand. “You haven’t told him yet, have you?” 

“I can’t.  I—”

“Can’t or won’t?”  

“I can explain.”

“Explain then,” she says, crossing her arms across her bosom, which if I’d been more observant prior to our leaving for the king’s camp I would have realised is much larger than when I had her under me, naked and compliant.

I launch into my reasons for not telling Guy about her and our proposed marriage, the words tumbling out easily after having gone over them many times on my way here. “I am sorry,” I add.

“And when exactly will you tell him? When I am as big as a house? On our wedding night?”

“I will tell him when the time is right. He saved my life. He is the reason I made it back to England.”

“I understand what you are saying, but that is no reason not to—”

“It was only yesterday that I found out about the child. If you had told me sooner then—”

“Then what?” she says. “Would it have changed anything?”

“It might.”

Rowena presses her lips together as if to suppress an angry retort.

“You told me it would be all right,” I say, swallowing my own mounting anger. “You said there was no chance that you could . . .”

I glance at the narrow door, wondering if Thomas and his wife can hear our conversation.

“Her hearing’s not good and he’ll be asleep by now,” she says, guessing my concern. “He pretends he’s in there looking after her, but really he goes in there to have a sleep after his midday meal.”

Satisfied no one is eavesdropping, I continue, though I keep my voice low. “You lied to me. You must have known the risk we were taking, yet you let me carry on regardless.” 

“You didn’t seem that bothered by it at the time.”

“What?”

“You made it quite clear that you wanted me. Of course, I know now that it wasn’t me you wanted at all.”

“I trusted you,” I say.

“And I trusted you. I trusted you to be the Robin Hood everyone talked about.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

She turns to stare at the fire but makes no move to spoon me a bowl of stew. I guess I am going to stay hungry after all.

“You were right, though,” she says. 

“About what?”

“About me telling you sooner. But as I explained to you, at first I wasn’t sure. I thought I was ill or something. And when I did realise, I couldn’t decide what to do. I wasn’t even sure that I wanted you, knowing that you preferred to bed men over me.”

“Not men. One man.”

“That doesn’t make it any better, Robin.”

“I know.”

She picks up a ladle lying by the hearth and absently stirs the stew. “I am sorry for being angry with you. Much told me of Guy’s terrible temper. You may be right about him turning against us and revealing the king’s whereabouts to Prince John’s men. And if he does that, then not only Nottingham but all of England will be in danger.”

Rowena is no fool. She knows that if Nottingham remains in the hands of Murdac and the Black Knights, I am likely to end up with my neck in a noose and, if I die, she will have no husband and no home of her own.

“It will not come to that, I am sure. But thank you for understanding. And I will not lie with Guy any more. You have my word.”

“Won’t he be suspicious if you don’t?”

“It won’t be possible in the camp, which is where we are now.”

“You’ve left Locksley?”

“Yes. To be nearer to the king.” I decide not to worry her by telling her about our narrow escape this morning. “As soon as Murdac and the Black Knights are defeated, the king will restore my lands and my title.” _I hope_ , I silently think. “And then we can be married.”

“I hope the sheriff dies a horrible death. Never have I met such a detestable man and I’ve met a few in my time. Even Guy seems nice compared to him.”

“Did he treat you so very badly when you were at the castle? I thought you were little more than a serving girl. I’m surprised he noticed you at all.”

“No one, from the highest to the lowest, escaped his bullying behaviour. Please, let’s not talk of him. I will simply be happy to learn he is no more.”

I glance out the window. I should be getting back to the camp before Much starts fretting and decides I’m in need of rescuing.

“I should go.”

“You haven’t eaten yet.”

“I’m not so very hungry,” I lie. “Say goodbye to Thomas for me.”

I sheathe my sword, pick up my bow and open the front door.

“Wait,” she says.

Rowena hurries over to me and I realise that she is hoping for more than a word of goodbye and a wave.

“Take care of yourself and our child,” I say, wrapping my arms around her waist. I lean forwards, intending to kiss her cheek. Instead, I find her lips on mine.

Despite the urge to pull away, I surrender to her kiss, willing myself to remember what it used to be like to kiss and touch a woman: sweet young lips, soft curves, silky limbs. Yet all I can think of is rough stubble, a firm jaw, the slide of a wet tongue and his muscled, hairy legs wrapped around my legs.

Emboldened, Rowena parts her lips, inviting me to deepen the kiss. I ease her away from me and give what I hope is a reassuring smile.

“When will you be back?” she asks.

“Soon.”

There is nothing more to say. She doesn’t say I love you and I don’t say it either.

Shouldering my bow, I step out into the biting wind and begin the long walk back to the camp.

 


	29. Nothing but the Truth

Guy drops the armful of logs he is carrying. Smiling, he breaks into a run, skidding to a stop some four or five paces away from where I am standing.

“Are you all right?” he asks, clearly embarrassed by his outward show of emotion.

“Yes, I’m fine, as you can see.”

I hold out my arms and turn around to emphasise the fact. Then, unable to bear the look of happiness on his face, I stride past him, my secret burning a hole through my heart.

“And the people of Clun?” he calls after me.

It’s clearly an afterthought. I’m sure he couldn’t care less about the villagers, but it’s touching all the same, the effort he is making to fit into my world.

It’s no good. I have to tell him the baby and my upcoming marriage. I can’t act all cold towards him when he wants to be nothing but affectionate with me. I promised him I would never lie to him, yet repeatedly I find myself breaking that promise. He’ll never get close enough to the Black Knights to rat on the king. They know he’s been with me these past weeks, they know he’s on my side. And he can still have his proud moment fighting alongside me if he so chooses. A change in our relationship doesn’t have to get in the way of that.

“Guy.” I turn around and walk towards him. “We need to talk. I need to talk to you.”

“About what?”

The gang, who up until now have kept their distance, edge closer. Much looks at me and then at Guy.

“Are you sure, master? I mean I know I wanted you to tell him, but that thing you said about the king.”

“I have to tell him. This is eating me up so much I can barely think straight.”

Guy gives me a puzzled look. “Tell me what?”

“Not here.” I nod towards the surrounding forest. “Alone.” I start walking towards the trees, expecting Guy to follow. 

“Oh no you don’t.”

I turn around to find Little John at Guy’s back, one great arm around his chest and the other struggling to pull Guy’s sword from its scabbard. 

“Get the bloody hell off me,” Guy protests, twisting and turning in an effort to free himself. 

“John,” I warn. “Let him go.”

“No. Not until he gives me his sword.”

“And what exactly,” Guy growls, “do you think I’m about to do with it?”

“I won’t have you hurting Robin,” John explains. “We need him. The king needs him.”

“Why in heaven’s name would I want to hurt Robin?” Guy glares at Much. “This morning you ran up the stairs, spouting some nonsense about me hurting Robin, and now John is saying the same thing. Will someone” – and he is looking at me when he says this – “please tell me what is going on.”

“Let him go, John,” I say.

“No. Not until he gives up his sword.”

“Guy, give John your sword and then we’ll talk.” 

Guy nods and, cautiously, John lets go of him.

“So talk,” Guy says, handing John his broadsword.

John points at Guy’s boots. “And the other one.”

“There is no other one, so back off.”

“Robin?” John queries.

“Guy isn’t wearing any other blades.”

Satisfied, John steps away.

“Well?” Guy says. “What is weighing on your mind so much that you can barely think straight?”

“Not here,” I say. “Not in front of them.” 

“ _Them_ ,” Much says, “just happen to be people who love and care about you.” 

“If you care about me so much, you’ll learn when to get lost.”

Much opens his mouth as though to argue with me and then shuts it, changing his mind. He knows how stubborn I can be.

“We won’t be long,” I tell the gang, my chest tightening painfully as I imagine myself saying the words to Guy and his immediate reaction to them.

“But . . . but—”

“Let them go,” John says, tugging on Much’s shirtsleeve. 

I beckon Guy to follow me. He glances at the gang, hesitant, perhaps wondering whether my visit to Clun was just a ruse, perhaps thinking that I have struck a bargain with King Richard and am now about to hand him over to a dozen waiting crusaders.

“It’s all right,” I say, unsheathing my scimitar, along with my dagger and handing both to Much. “I’m not planning on doing away with you, if that’s what you think. I just want us to talk.”

Still Guy hesitates. I turn away and head for the trees praying that he decides to follow me despite his wariness. Moments later, I hear the crunch of leaves and his long-legged stride and know that he is on my tail.  

“Where are we going?” he calls after me. “And why no weapons? I refuse to go any further until you tell me what this is about.”

I keep walking. I want to be a good distance from the gang. I don’t know how Guy is going to react to my news, but, whether it ends in tears or a quarrel, I don’t want my friends anywhere nearby. This is my mess and I’m the one who has to clear it up.

“Then you won’t find out,” I call back, lengthening my stride.

“You’re leaving me, aren’t you?” he says, hurrying after me. “You’re about to tell me we’re finished and John was worried that I’d run you through like I did . . . like Marian. That’s why he wanted my sword.”

“I do have something to tell you,” I say, halting and turning to face him. “But it’s not that.”

His puzzled look turns into one of nervous hopefulness. “Tell me now.”

I shake my head, turn around and walk. Guy follows.

As we enter the clearing we once fought in all that time ago, shortly after I discovered Guy’s tattoo and accused him of treason, I stop walking.

He glances around him. “Well, go on, tell me whatever it is you have dragged me all the way here for.”  

“I don’t know where to start.”

“How about at the beginning.”

_The beginning_. My hand is cold and the ring slides off easily.

“I’m sorry.”

Walking the few paces that separate us, I offer Guy the token of affection he gave to me shortly before we first kissed.

“I don’t understand,” he says, making no move to take it. 

“I can’t wear this any more.” 

“Why? Why can’t you—” He looks up, his eyes widening in sudden understanding.  “They’ve found out, haven’t they?”

“What?”

“Your people. They know. They know that you and I have been—”

“No. It isn’t that.”

“Then why can’t you—”

“It’s Rowena.”

“The girl?” 

“She’s going to have a child. My child.” 

“No.” Guy vehemently shakes his head, refusing to believe my words.

Taking hold of his hand, I press the ring into his palm. “I’m truly sorry.”

“I don’t believe you.” He seizes my right hand as though he is about to force the ring back onto my finger. “You’re making it up. You just want to get out of—”

“I’m not making it up. It’s true.”

Guy lets go of my hand and stumbles backwards, dropping the ring as he does so.

“How long have you known?” he asks.

I don’t answer, am staring at the ground, remembering the time when Marian’s engagement ring, the one Guy gave her, lay discarded atop the fallen leaves.

“How long?” he barks. 

“Since early yesterday.”

“Yesterday?” 

“At the king’s camp. I think she meant to tell me before then, but must have changed her mind. It was only when she was unwell in front of Richard and—”

“You bastard.”

He goes to unsheathe his sword, cursing when his hand clutches at nothing. 

“I can explain.”

“Oh, I bet you can. I bet you can explain to me how neatly arranged it all was.”

He takes a step towards me.

“I did not arrange—”

“All those weeks,” he cuts across me, “when you left me alone in the house while you went off to see your precious gang and to feed and clothe those ignorant, foul-smelling peasants of yours. Found yourself with some time on your hands, did you? wanted a bit of smooth after the rough? decided you could have your fucking cake and eat it?”

“No. I didn’t. I—” 

“I waited for you. Every day, I paced the house and I waited for you. I told Elisabeth what food to fetch us and I laid it out for us, so when you got in it would be there on the table, ready and waiting. I chopped wood and lit fires. I tended to the upper floors where we forbade Elisabeth to go. All for you. And all the while you were bedding that little whore.”

“Enough! It was not like that. The whole of the time I was with you, I never saw Rowena.  Not once.”

“Then when—?”

“It was before we found you, sick and feverish in the camp. Rowena had been living at Locksley, posing as my sister.”

“What?”

“It doesn’t matter. What matters is that I met her before I even knew you were back in Nottingham.”

“How could you?” he says, his face filled with disbelief. “How could you, so soon after Marian?”

“You don’t understand.  Rowena wasn’t a replacement for Marian. She was meant to . . .”

“Meant to what?”

“She was meant to stop me from wanting you. Because it was you that I wanted. Ever since France, maybe even before then. I don’t know. I was frightened. I didn’t understand what was wrong with me, how I could possibly want to lie with men, and with you of all people. I thought being with a woman would change that, would take the want away. But it didn’t.” 

Guy unclenches his fists and, for a moment, I think he is about to embrace me, tell me he forgives me.

“You asked her to marry you, didn’t you?” 

I nod. 

“Of course, you would do that. The good and honourable Robin Hood.”

“Hardly.”

I wait for his lips to twitch, for that small smile that he so freely bestows upon me nowadays whenever I make a joke rather than the more oft scowl he used to employ. The smile doesn’t come.

“I know this isn’t what we wanted,” I say. “But you and me . . .”

“You and me what?”  

“Well, it wasn’t going to last forever, was it?”

“I wasn’t asking for forever, Robin.”

His head drops forward, his long hair obscuring his face. He toes the winter-brown leaves, as though looking for my lost ring.

I turn away, not wanting to have to deal with his hurt, barely coping with my own. 

Never turn your back on a wounded animal my father once told me as I stamped my foot and fumed over not making a clean shot on the boar. Too late, I recall his words. 

“What did you think?” Guy snarls, wrenching my right arm behind my back and propelling me forwards until I smack into the nearest tree.

“Guy, my arm, you’re hurting me.”

“And I’m going to hurt you a whole lot more,” he says, grabbing my flailing left arm and smacking it repeatedly into the tree’s trunk. “What did you think? That I was simply going to smile and say, never mind, Robin, these things happen. You go on right on ahead and marry the girl and we’ll just be best friends. Oh, and don’t forget to send me an invite to your fucking wedding, will you?”

“Guy, please.” 

I am frightened. If my injured arm were not hurting me, perhaps I could fight my way free.  But it does and I can’t. Moreover, Guy’s anger makes him powerful and dangerous. He has slipped into that blood-fuelled place where everything is coloured red and I’m not sure that mention of Marian will save me this time.

His belt buckle is jabbing into my lower back, his knees pressing into the backs of my knees. There is a stump of branch digging into my middle, a taste of bark in my mouth. I stop struggling and wait for the punches I am certain he is about to deal me.

Unexpectedly, he lets go.

Snatching a few grateful breaths and clutching my painful right arm, I turn to face him.

“Yesterday,” he says, clearly puzzling over something. 

“Yesterday, what?”

“Yesterday, you said. In the king’s camp.”

It is not a question, and I see what I have done. 

_One more time. One more time with Guy and then I will tell him._

“We fucked, Robin. We left the king’s camp and went back to Locksley and we fucked. And all the time, you knew. So how long, then? How long were you going to keep it a secret from me?”

He’s wrong about us fucking because all we did was watch one another, a prelude to something more, which I made sure didn’t happen. Now, however, is not the time to put him right on that score.

“Do they know?” he asks.

“Who?”

“You know perfectly well who. The gang, your friends?” 

I watch as a gust of wind whisks up the leaves in front of his boots.

“Oh, I see. You weren’t going to tell me because you need me, and not just for warming your bed. You need me because I know my way around the castle better than any of you do. You want to use me the way you use everyone.”

“That isn’t true. I care for you.”

“I care for you,” Guy says with a sneer. “Listen to yourself. The only thing you care about is that precious gang of yours and your hero-worshipping peasants. Theirs is the love and admiration you want, not mine. You make me sick.”

“Guy, what I did with Rowena was a mistake. I knew that almost the moment it happened.  But it doesn’t change the fact she is going to have a child, and I can’t walk away from that the way you walked away from it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know what it means. You condemned Annie’s baby, your son, to almost certain death. If it hadn’t been for us—”

“Always about _you_. I told the guards to take it away. I didn’t say where. I did not think they would just abandon it in the forest.”

“Oh, what, you thought they might just hand him to some passing noble woman who would say, ‘Oh my, what a gorgeous child, I simply must take him home and raise him as my own’?”

“I had nothing. Nothing but the crumbs Vaisey passed my way. No lands, no home.”

“You had Locksley.”

“Locksley was never mine and you know it.”

“Annie was a kitchen maid. She didn’t need lands or titles.”

“No, but I did. I needed them.”

“And do you still need them? Is that why you’re with me, because you think that the king will rescind my outlaw status and I will be free to hand you back your family lands? Is that what you and me have all been about, to settle old scores?”

“You know it isn’t. Don’t try to twist things. It makes you sound like Marian.”   

A sudden snapping of twigs startles us and, for the first time since leaving the camp, I curse the fact we are both weaponless.

The deer regards us for a moment, before darting away.

Guy’s relieved smile quickly disappears. “This is all very convenient, isn’t it?”

“What do you mean?”

“What Allan said this morning, about Murdac’s men discussing the two of us. All getting a bit too close for comfort for you, is it? But oh, look, here’s the perfect way out. Pretty little wife. Child. All nice and respectable.”

“You talk as though I planned the whole thing.”

“I wouldn’t put it past you.”

“Well I didn’t.”

“So, now what?” he asks. 

“I want you to stay.”

Guy laughs, but there is no amusement in it.

“Why? So I can change its smelly under-wrappings while you and she—”

“You know I didn’t mean it like that.”

“The answer,” he says, “is no.”

“No?”

“Your cause means nothing to me. I’ve done whatever you asked of me because I want you. You’re all that matters to me.”

“But I thought you wanted to be a better man, to prove that Marian was right about you?”

“Only if it included being with you. I loved you, Robin. Enough that I would give up all thoughts of wealth or power. Enough that I would put up with your do-gooding and all those stupid peasants you champion. And this is how you repay me.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t have a choice.” 

“Not good enough.”

“Then what do you—”

“You get the girl and I am left with nothing – again.”

“I didn’t get the girl when you killed Marian. You were the one who left me with nothing.”

“It always comes back to Marian, doesn’t it?” 

He is right. Deep down, I have never truly forgiven him for what he did. I didn’t believe I had to because I knew he would never forgive himself.

I crouch, as if to look for my ring, giving Guy the chance to do what I did to him long ago, in this very clearing. The boot to the face doesn’t come. I lift my head. 

“Make no mistake,” – Guy raises his arms, fists held out in front of him – “this ends here, _Hood_.”

 


	30. What Hurts the Most

One swift kick to the face and it could have been over. He could have left me to my misery, walked away with his head held high. He could have been the better man. 

Instead, Guy stands poised, fists raised. We have no weapons. This will be a bare-knuckled, unrestrained fistfight.

I come slowly to my feet. “No. I don’t want to fight you.”

“Why not?” He edges closer. “Isn’t that why we’re here?” With open arms, he indicates the leafy hollow. “Sixth letter of the alphabet, wasn’t it? A fight and a fuck. Isn’t that what you want?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I brought you here because it’s far enough away from the camp that we won’t be disturbed by the gang.”

“Believe what you will, but you don’t fool me. You were hoping that a simple sorry and a bit of roughing up to even the score might lead to something more pleasurable. So, come on.”  Guy waggles his fingers at me, inviting me to take him up on his offer.

I shake my head, guiltily wondering if he is right, if there had indeed been a deeper, more despicable reason for me bringing him this far into the forest and to this place in particular, the place where I’d once envisaged the two of us bloodying each other and then making up in the filthiest way possible. 

Guy lowers his fists. “We’ll go straight for the fuck then, shall we? A final fling for the oh-so-respectable, don’t-muddy-my-name Robin Hood, before the bells peal out in Locksley for the lord and his lady. His big-bellied wife. Can’t wait to hear your explanation for that to the congregation. Ate a few too many pies with the grubby peasants of Clun, did she?”

“What do you want from me?” I ask.

“I wanted your loyalty, and your trust.” 

“You had both of those. You know you did.” 

“And I wanted you to tell me that you loved me, the way I loved you. But I guess that was too much to ask.”

If I declare my true feelings for him, now, will he let me go quietly or will it only make matters worse? I stay silent.

He raises his fists once more. “A fight it is, then.”

I mirror his stance. “You will regret this.”

“Not as much as you’re going to,” he says, charging towards me.

He swipes a balled fist at my head. I duck and deliver a swift left hook to his jaw, sending him stumbling backwards.

Quickly recovering his feet, he comes at me again, fists swinging wildly. I deftly sidestep, desperate to keep his knuckles from connecting with my weakened right arm. 

Roaring his frustration, Guy whirls round and charges at me again.

Once more, I manage to evade his flying fists, grabbing a handful of hair as I slip behind his back. Still gripping his hair, I shove him into a nearby tree, as he did me. His face smacks into the heavily fissured bark.

Taking a couple of steps backwards, I kick him in the back of his knee, once, twice.  He cries out and clutches the tree trunk to keep from falling. 

Shakily, I back away.

He whirls around, spitting bark and blood.

“Please,” I say. “This is madness.” 

“It’s your fault.” He fingers his bloody nose. “If you’d kept that cock of yours under control, none of this would have happened. You’d have been mine and—”

“I’m not some possession!”

Snarling, he pushes away from the tree.

Anticipating my dodge, he feints a punch to my temple, at the same time lashing out with his foot. His boot crunches into my knee and I stagger backwards. 

Unrelenting, he kicks out again. The toe of his boot smashes into the half-healed slash on my upper thigh, the sharp spike of pain enough to send me toppling. 

Immediately, he throws himself on top of me, landing heavily on my stomach.

“I have you now,” he gloats, his thighs clamping my hips.

I cannot tell whether his triumphant grin is because he’s about to deliver a series of blows to render me unconscious, or whether this is the part where he thinks everything changes.   

“Yes, you do,” I concede, a plan forming as I stare deeply into his eyes. “But if you want to do something about it, you’re going to have to lift off me a little.”

“All right.”

He pushes up onto his knees.

“Thank you.” I smile and then swiftly crunch my knee into his groin. 

With an outraged howl, he tips off me. I roll away and leap to my feet.

“So you want to play dirty?” he says, pushing up onto all fours. Grimacing, he stands, tossing back the tangled mass of hair from his blood-streaked face as he does so.

“My game, my rules.”

“Isn’t it always,” he retorts.

Warily, we circle one another, each looking for an opening. We spot the fallen branch at the same time.

He lunges, but I am quicker, swiping up the branch, along with a fistful of damp leaves. I brandish the makeshift weapon in front of me, as I would a sword. 

“Right back to where we started,” he says, eyeing the branch. “Arguing over who wins the prize.”

“This is not about Marian,” I counter.

“I never said it was.”

He backs away as I edge towards him. 

“If you don’t wish to stay with me, with us, and help put Nottingham to rights,” I say, “then walk away. Walk away and let me be. Don’t make this any harder than it already is.”

“You’re the one making it harder, not me.”

One decent blow, that’s all it would take. I hate the thought of leaving him lying unconscious in the depths of the forest when night is almost upon us, but the alternative, of me being the one on the ground, isn’t any more appealing. With Guy down, I can make my way back to the camp. I don’t believe he would dare take on the four of us.

I toss the branch onto the ground.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “Truly I am. But it’s over. Leave if you want to, beat me to a pulp if it makes you feel any better. I won’t stop you. But please try to think about what Marian would have wanted.”

I turn my back on him and start walking in the direction of the camp, fighting tears, fighting the urge to turn around and beg him not to go.

“Don’t you dare,” he says, “bring Marian into this.”

I half turn.

_Guy might not be so good at capturing outlaws, but he has a blinding over-arm on him._ Allan, talking about Guy’s snowballing prowess.

The branch smacks into my head and I crash to the ground. Guy seizes his chance.

“This isn’t over until I say it’s over.” He straddles me, pinning me to the ground.

Cold fingers and thumb grasp my jaw, brutally squeezing until my mouth falls open. He kisses me – a hard, punishing kiss, the slow, wet slide of his tongue on my tongue. The rust-and-salt taste of blood fills my mouth.

Clamping his legs on either side of my legs, he grabs my wrists and grinds them into the leaf-mouldy earth.

“Again?” he says. A smug grin tugs at his lips.

An inarticulate grunt confirms my willingness.

His mouth meets my mouth, gentler this time, teeth softly nipping. Adjusting his position slightly, so his hips rest above mine, he starts to rock, an almost imperceptible slide up and down my trapped body. A heavy, warm ache of want floods my groin.

“See, Robin. Revenge can be sweet. Now, if you promise me you’re going to be a good boy, I’ll lift up so you can undo my belt.”

“All right.”

Releasing my arms, Guy comes up onto his knees. With practised efficiency, I unbuckle his belt and work his leathers and undergarments down his thighs.

Through the pain and humiliation, I’m dimly aware that I should be fighting back, that I am Robin Hood. Instead, and hating myself more than I ever thought possible, I relax into the forest floor, passively watching as he unties my laces. 

Holding my arms captive once more, Guy lowers himself back on top of me so our cocks are touching. He buries his face into my neck, his breath warm on my skin. I can smell blood and leather and unwashed hair. 

I stare at the twilit sky. The first stars are appearing. The ground is cold and there are twigs digging into my back. The hands around my wrists loosen slightly and, for a fleeting moment, I consider shoving him off me.

He quietly laughs into my neck and pushes himself up onto his knees once more. 

“Like I said,” – he eyes my arousal – “this isn’t over until I say it’s over.”  

~

The left side of my head is hurting. There is soil in my mouth. I am face down on the forest floor, my arms stretched out in front of me.

Painfully, I raise my head from the damp, leafy ground and peer forwards.

My arms are resting either side of a tree trunk, my wrists bound by my neck scarf, my knife-belt and the ties from my breeches, ripped off while I lay unconscious. Along with bow skills, I had taught Guy the art of tethering an enemy with whatever is to hand. One quick tug of my bound wrists informs me he has mastered the skill. I’d been a fool to think he would let me off that easily.

For a moment, I think he has left me here, alone, until his heavy black boot lands alongside my face.

“My game, my rules,” he says, echoing my earlier words.

I turn my head to the side, lay my aching left temple on the cool earth. I would give anything for a mouthful of water or ale, but I doubt that will be any more forthcoming than my release.

“What are you going to do?” I ask.

“I am going to teach you a lesson.”  He places a booted foot on my back. “I’m going to show you what it’s like to be used.”

“Guy, I swear to you, I never used you. All the things we did together, all the times we shared in Locksley meant everything to me. You mean everything to me.”

“You’ve got a funny way of showing it.”

“Listen, if I could change things, I would. Believe me. But I can’t. I won’t walk away from something I’m responsible for.”

“Why? Because it’s not the Robin Hood way?”

“No, because it’s not my way.”

He grunts, lifts his boot off my back and takes a step backwards. I grit my teeth, readying myself for the kicks or blows I am sure he is about to deliver. 

Instead, he squats beside me.

“Do you know what hurts the most?” he says. “It’s me, being a fool, for believing I had found someone who truly cared for me, despite everything I’ve done.”

“You did find someone. You found me. After Marian . . .” 

“After Marian what?”

“After she died, I wanted nothing more than to give up, regardless of the promises I made to her. You know I did. Without you, I’d be nothing more than a bleached skeleton right now.”

“That was my first mistake,” he says.

“You don’t mean that.”

He stands, walks around the tree and checks my bonds. Then he crouches next to me and, once again, I steel myself for whatever punishment he is about to mete out.

“A few punches, a quick grope on the forest floor and you think we’re all square,” he says, bending close to my head.

It is not a question. 

“What are you going to do?” I ask. “Kill me?”

“What makes you think that?”

“Because that’s the Guy of Gisborne way.”

“And you say you trust me.”

He sits on my lower back. “Believe me, I thought about it. But no, that’s too easy. I want you to pay for your betrayal.”

“I told you. I only found out about the baby yesterday. It was as much of a shock for me as it was for you.”

“Such a shock that you thought a bit of mutual masturbation would be a pleasant way to start our evening.” He grabs a handful of my hair and pulls it. “What else have you lied about?”

“Nothing.”

“I don’t believe you. You and she were always in cahoots. For all I know, you were the one who put her up to all her lies and deceptions.”

He’s not talking about Rowena.

“Think what you will,” I say, “but I’m telling the truth. So what do you want from me, other than the pleasure of seeing me hurt?”

He lets go of my hair and wraps his hands loosely around my neck. “I played by the rules. I played by Vaisey’s rules and ended up with nothing. I played by her rules and ended up with nothing.”  He leans down, his long hair draping over my head and across my face. “And I played by your rules – still nothing.”

“If you want money, I can get it for you. I can—”

His hands tighten around my neck. “Is that how little you think of me after all we’ve been through?”

“Then what? You’re going to kill me? Mess with me a bit and then kill me?”

“Like I said, too easy. No, I’m going to make you pay. Pay for allowing me to believe we had a future together. Pay for humiliating me in front of your men. And, yes, I know they’re not exactly my friends, but in time . . .” 

He trails off, but he has said enough to leave me in no doubt that his greatest wish, apart from being with me, was for my friends to accept him, like him even. 

“If you try to get to the king,” I tell him, “his men will cut you down. You will never get near him. And John’s supporters will not trust you either. Not now they suspect you and I have shared a bed.”

“Ha!” He shuffles down my legs until his full weight is on the backs of my knees.“Is that what you’re so afraid of? Why you tried to keep the truth from me? Once again, Robin, you have missed the point, insisting on looking at the grand scheme of things instead of what’s in front of that noble nose of yours. You think this is about your precious King Richard and your beloved Nottingham and its people. Well, let me enlighten you.”

He slips a hand between my legs. I bite down on an unbidden twitch of lust.

“I have a better way of hurting you,” he says, cupping my ball-sack, gently squeezing. “By going to Nottingham and telling everyone what you’re really like, what you’ve been doing since your return to England. Gisborne is here as my guest. That’s what you told those miserable peasants of yours as they listened intently to their lord and master, bowed their heads and mumbled, yes, my lord, no, my lord, three bags full, my lord.”

“I was only trying to protect you.”

“I don’t need your protection.”  He slides his hand from between my legs. “I’m going to tell them what you’ve been doing with your so-called guest, all the dirty, filthy games we played in Locksley, right under their noses. But first, I’m going to remind you what you’ll be missing when you’re lying in bed with your big-bellied wife.”

“Please don’t do this.”

“Shall I tell them you prefer me on top?” he says, ignoring my entreaty. “Tell them how often you—”

 “Stop. Please.”

“Stop? I don’t think so. I’ve only just started, after all.” 

He shifts his position and two powerful arms snake their way under my hipbones and jerk me up onto my knees. The belts and ties cut deeper into my wrists. He spits and slips moistened fingers between my buttocks. I close my eyes, willing myself not to respond.

“I’m going to humiliate you, Robin of Locksley, so that you are hounded out of your home, sent away in disgrace. And as for your unborn child. Imagine the day your son or daughter hears about their absent father. All those whispered stories, all those sidelong glances and pointing fingers. The stories of Robin-cock-loving-Hood.”

I can hardly believe that his love for me could descend so quickly into this bitter, hurtful act. 

“What about your reputation? If you tell everyone about us, you’ll be finished in Nottingham, along with me.”

“You think I care. There is nothing for me here, not any more.” 

He withdraws his fingers from my backside and I ready myself for what comes next. There is no point resisting. I cannot escape. And Guy can be a violent man when he wants to be. Of course, I could beg him not to, appeal to the better man I now know exists. But I have hurt him too deeply to think that he will back out now and, shamefully, I admit that I want him to do this more than I want to get out of it.

I bow my head in silent surrender.

Laughing softly, he pushes into me, and I realise that all the time he has been talking about how he is going to besmirch my good name he must have been quietly fingering himself. 

“Renaud was right,” he says. “Forget love, he told me. And especially forget those who never return the sentiment.” 

I guess he is talking about the first man he was intimate with, if you discount the men who raped him, who left him naked and bleeding to limp, empty-handed, back to his younger sister, Isabella.

“You’d have thought I’d learned my lesson with Marian.”

“Please,” I say.

“Is that please keep going or please get off me you filthy, fucking bastard?”

I don’t answer, concentrating instead on my bound wrists. If I can get free, I can stop him from going to Nottingham, stop him from destroying us both, maybe even find a way for us to be together. All I need is time to think things through. There has to be an answer, a way for me to have what I want. A way for us both to have what we want.

“Guy, I’m sorry about last night, sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. It was wrong of me. I made a mistake.”

“Try telling that to the people of Nottingham the next time you go to market.” 

His fingers curl around my hardening cock.

“Don’t,” I say, cursing how weak I sound.

Ignoring my plea, he begins to work me the way he knows I like it.

I jerk backwards, in an effort to throw him off me, but it is a half-hearted attempt at best and I know I am simply doing it to save face.

He laughs. “You’ll have to try harder than that.”

Grinding my forehead into the forest floor, I beg the God that has deserted me to forgive me for giving into such earthy desires as my heart speeds up in anticipation of that exquisite moment of letting go.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” he says. “Me on you. Us having our forest fuck. Feels dangerous.  I don’t know why I’ve never tied you up before.”

The ties and belt around my wrists have loosened, though not enough for me to slip my hands through.

“This is what you want, Robin. This is what you crave. Danger. Excitement. Not some compliant little woman, who’ll meekly lie there with her legs open, whispering sweet endearments in your ear, while thinking about crocheting a new blanket for the cradle. This is what took you to war, what made you an outlaw, take risks in the castle. This is why you’re with me and why nothing and no-one else comes close.”

He is right. I do crave this. I want to feel his flesh on my flesh, feel him inside me. Because he keeps me alive, and because it keeps her death away.

His thrusts are harder now, words replaced by throaty grunts. Tipping my face towards my spread legs, I watch his hand on my cock, speeding up and slowing down – sure, practised, perfect. 

My eyes flick to the stitched cut on my upper thigh, purpling from the kick he gave it, and I recall being pinned to the wall, in Locksley, Guy at my back. 

I don’t care if this is wrong. I am past the point of trying to fight or talk my way out of it. I’m committed, stepping off the cliff, welcoming the fall.

Moments later, my seed spatters onto the winter-brown leaves beneath me. Guy is quick to follow me in defiling the forest floor.

I collapse onto the ground, knowing only that Guy has won and I let him and I’m not even sorry about it. 

“Humiliation,” he whispers in my ear. “That’s what hurts the most. Trust me, I know what I’m talking about. And this will hurt a lot more than having your hair cut off.”

Once again, he is right. Losing the respect of my people will hurt. I’ll be finished as Robin Hood. But losing him, losing all those moments we shared since returning to England, will hurt more. His smiles and open laughter. Those simple acts of eating and drinking together, in Locksley. Lying in bed, wrapped in each other’s arms. Of being with the only other person on this earth who understands what it was to love and to lose Marian. All those precious moments, gone forever. 

Guy is doing up his belt buckle, doubtless preparing to leave me lying here, tied to a tree, my breeches around my ankles, my crotch resting on the evidence of our depraved coupling.

He crouches next to my head and I turn my face away from him.

“Save your tears,” he says. “I’m still going to Nottingham.”  

 


	31. A Message from Murdac

It’s no good me lying here, crying over what might have been. I have to stop Guy. If I don’t, then by this time tomorrow the whole of Nottingham might know that Robin Hood slips his fingers into more than rich men’s purses.

Cursing my weakness at not felling Guy when I had the chance, I work my way up onto my bare knees and shuffle closer to the tree. I start rubbing the ties and belt securing my wrists up and down the fissured bark, bloodying my lower arms as I do so. The worn belt snaps, as I hoped it would, and the scarf and laces fray and tear apart soon after.

Gingerly, I part the hair on the left side of my head. My fingers come away bloody, but there is no time to tend to it now. I may be fleeter than him when it comes to running, but Guy already has a head start on me and he knows the quickest way to Nottingham just as well as I do. If it had been a darker night that might have slowed him down, but there is an almost full moon in a cloudless sky making it easy to pick out the forest tracks.

I glance around the moonlit hollow. Somewhere under the fallen leaves is my ring, that tangible piece of evidence symbolising my commitment to Guy and to our relationship. There is no point looking for it even if I had the time. We will never be a couple again. Worse, he is my enemy now just as he was before circumstances brought us together on the boat out of Acre.

I take off after him, one hand holding up my loose breeches. While I run, I think about my chances of stopping him without any weapons and the consequences of him entering the town.

The high walls surrounding Nottingham are in the hands of Murdac’s men, the Black Knights, and without a long ladder or rope, and a great deal of courage or foolhardiness, depending on how you look at it, there is no way Guy will be able to scale any of the walls in order to gain entry into the town. If it had been Vaisey’s men guarding the gatehouses, I am certain Guy could talk or even bribe his way in, but I doubt Murdac’s men will be so easy to dupe. On the other hand, they might let him in if the sheriff believes he has something to gain from it – namely me.

Murdac doubtless wants me to pay for killing his brother and if he can get to me through any of my men, including Guy, he will. I do not believe Guy will last long under torture and his capture might mean more than the loss of my good name and the location of our forest camp. He might tell John’s supporters of the king’s whereabouts and that an army is on its way to Nottingham to retake the castle. If Murdac’s men-at-arms attack the king’s camp before Christophe returns with reinforcements, Richard will hold me personally responsible. I have to get to Guy before Murdac’s men do.

I run faster.

~

Someone is running towards me. For a heart-soaring moment, I think it is Guy, until I realise the footfalls are too light for it to be him. Much or Allan, maybe? I dive into a tangle of undergrowth. Without my weapons, I’d be a fool to chance an encounter with one of Murdac’s men, however unlikely that might be at this late hour.

The runner comes into view. Even from this distance, I can make out that it is not one of the gang. He is quite short with shoulder-length hair, wearing a loose cloak and clutching a longbow. He comes nearer, walking now, and I recognise Luke Scarlett.

With a sigh of relief, I step out from my hiding place.

“Who’s there?” Luke calls, raising his bow and clumsily nocking an arrow.

“It’s me, Robin.” I take a couple of steps towards him, spreading my arms to show that I am both unarmed and that I am who I say I am.

Luke smiles in recognition. “Robin, thank God.” He lowers his bow, slips the arrow back into his quiver and walks towards me.

“What are you doing in the forest so late?” I ask. “Has something happened in Locksley?” 

Immediately, I regret the question. If he is about to tell me that someone needs my help, I don’t want to know. All I can think of is that with every passing moment Guy is getting nearer to Nottingham and closer to ruining everything.

“No, nothing like that.” Luke looks me up and down. “You’re hurt. Have you been in a fight?”

“Of sorts. Look, I need to get to Nottingham, fast. Can you talk and run?”

“Of course. Can you?” Luke indicates my bleeding head. 

“I’ll live. Come on.” Clutching my loose breeches, I take off, Luke at my side.

“So,” I say, “what are you doing in the forest after dark?”

“I was looking for your camp. Will told me where it was, in case of emergencies, and swore me to secrecy. I was sure I could find it. But it wasn’t as easy as I thought. All the trees look the same.”

“Not when you’ve lived here as long as I have they don’t. Why were you looking for the camp? To find me, I presume?”

“Yes. I’m supposed to give you this. The man who gave it to me said it was important. He said he’ll be back in the morning for your reply.” Luke slips his hand under his cloak and pulls out a small scroll of parchment. “Here,” he says, handing it to me as we run.

Despite the need for haste, I slow to a walk and, finding an area relatively free of trees, I unroll the parchment. Even with a near-full moon, it is too dark to read the words. Luke produces a flint and quickly fashions and lights a torch for me. He presses against my arm and leans in to get a better look, even though he can’t read.  

“Is it bad news?” he asks.

“Maybe. Who gave you this message?”  

“The sheriff’s master-at-arms. He said someone must deliver it to Robin Hood as quickly as possible. He got all the villagers together and asked if anyone knew where your camp was. I said I did.”

“This master-at-arms. Did he try to follow you?” 

“Of course.” Luke grins. “But I gave him the slip. I’m not stupid, Robin.”

“I know you’re not.” I ruffle his hair. “Good lad.” 

“What does it say?” he asks, shuffling away from me to escape any more fatherly gestures. Luke obviously regards himself as a man even though, to me, he will always be that shy yet eager boy who I met shortly after returning from the crusades.

“It’s from the sheriff. He wants me to go to the castle.”

“What for?”

“He wants to talk to me.”

I’m not going to tell Luke that Murdac is proposing a one-on-one sword fight with me; there is no point alarming the boy, especially since the message also says that if I don’t come to the castle by sundown tomorrow, Murdac will burn Locksley to the ground. Now I see why the sheriff has left me alone these past weeks. He wants to deal with me personally and he had to wait until he was fit and well to do so.

Tucking the scroll into my shirt, I tell Luke that I need to get running again.

“What about your reply to the message? Do you want me to take it back to Locksley?”

“No. I’ll deliver it in person.”

“I’ll run with you for a bit, then. If that’s all right. I don’t like being in the forest on my own. It’s a bit spooky.”

Nodding my assent and ditching the flaming torch, we take off again.  

“Tell me about Murdac,” I say, between laboured breaths. “Have you ever seen him?”

“No. I don’t think any of the villagers have. People say he’s been very sick and that a physician from London came to tend to him after Blight failed to do any good. Rowena told me about him, though. She said he’s a nasty piece of work. She said that when she was working in the castle Murdac used to—”

Luke puts on a spurt, unwilling, it seems, to say any more on the subject. I catch up with him, grab his arm and pull him to a stop.

“Murdac used to what?”

“Nothing.” Biting his lip, Luke half-turns towards the trees, as though to avoid my eyes. “It doesn’t matter.”

“I think it does. Tell me.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I promised I wouldn’t say anything to anybody, especially you.”

“Luke,” I say, as patiently as I can, aware that Guy could be halfway to Nottingham by now. “I understand about promises and the need to keep them, but sometimes, if it’s the right thing to do, you have to break them. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

He nods. “All right. But please don’t tell her I told you, will you?”

“I won’t. Now tell me and make it fast.”

Luke starts to talk and I listen calmly, despite my growing anxiety over Guy.

He tells me about Rowena’s arrival in Locksley and how he and his friends, Robert and Thomas, had befriended her when it became clear she had no family. He tells me about her prowess with a bow, reminding the villagers of their absent lord. He tells me how she liked pretending to be me and how she would pick men’s pockets and give the resulting coin to the villagers.

“I know all this,” I tell him as kindly as I can. It is obvious from his stumbling over his words that he is in love with my future bride. “But tell me about Murdac.”

“Shouldn’t we be running?” he says, as if to sidestep the issue. “You said you needed to get to Nottingham fast. Are your friends in trouble?”

“One of my friends is, yes. But I’ll go no further until you tell me whatever it is you’re not supposed to tell me.”

Luke is quiet for a moment, as though considering the matter, and then he nods and says, “Murdac sent men to take Rowena back to the castle. He said she was his property. We fired arrows at them and they went away. Soon after that the sheriff got sick and he didn’t bother her any more, not until that day you were at the manor house and fought them off.”

I glance at the sky, at the first telltale signs of dawn.

“Luke, I don’t have time for a long tale. You said that when Rowena was working in the castle Murdac used to do something. What was it? Did he beat her? Is that it?”

“Worse than that. Just before you came back to Nottingham, Elisabeth, you know, the girl who tends your house, got very sick. Rowena knew she needed a physician, so she took a horse and rode to Matilda’s house, but Matilda wasn’t there, so she rode to Nottingham to fetch Blight, but she didn’t come back, so I ran to Clun and then Nettlestone and found Matilda and she came and fixed Elisabeth and then—”

“Slow down,” I say.

“But you said to tell you fast.”

“I know I did, but try to breathe, all right.”

Luke takes a steadying breath and continues. “I’d been waiting at the top of the hill for her, just like I did the day before and the day before that. Then she appeared, running towards Locksley as though the devil was after her. Her dress was torn and there were scratches on her arms. I knew something bad had happened to her, but she wouldn’t tell me what.”

“Murdac forced himself on her. Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”

“She wouldn’t tell me anything, but then, a couple of weeks later, maybe more than that, she asked me to go to Matilda’s house and fetch some particular herbs, said it was important. But Matilda wouldn’t give them to me, said it might be dangerous and Rowena should come to her if she wanted to treat her problem, as she called it. When I got back to Locksley, empty-handed, Rowena clumped me round the ear and said I was a stupid boy. Then she burst into tears. That’s when she told me she thought she might be having a baby and that she needed something to take it away. She wouldn’t talk to me after that, but I think she must have changed her mind about getting rid of the baby because she was a different shape last time I saw her, more womanly, if you know what I mean. Oh, of course you know what I mean. I’m being . . . sorry. She is going to be all right, isn’t she, Robin?”

The gnawing anxiety in my stomach unravels slightly as I realise what this means.

Murdac raped Rowena. The child isn’t mine.

 


	32. For Guy

It’s all starting to make sense, the way Rowena latched onto me the moment I arrived in Locksley, her eagerness that we couple so quickly. And me, still grieving over Marian, wrestling with my dark-hearted desires and my want of Guy, willing to go along with her if it meant I could push my hurts and my haunts away. 

“Robin?”

Regaining my composure, I turn my attention back to Luke.

“What?”

“I said Rowena’s going to be all right, isn’t she?”

Poor Luke. He knows nothing of my torment, concerned only that the girl he has loved from afar suffered a violent assault on her person and is carrying a child because of it.

“Yes, she’s going to be fine,” I tell him, struggling to get my words past the angry tightness in my throat. “I will personally see to it.” 

I run my tongue around the inside of my mouth, trying to work some saliva back into the dryness, my thoughts toppling over one another – Rowena lied to me, letting me think the child growing inside her is mine, Murdac is a despicable piece of shit, Guy doesn’t need to go to Nottingham, we can still be together. 

“Are you all right?” Luke asks, clearly concerned by my uneasy silence.

“Yes, I’m fine. I’m worried for my friend.”

“Should we run again?”

I nod and, once more, Luke and I resume running towards Nottingham, the dawn chorus reminding me how quickly time is slipping by, that before I know it it will be sundown, the appointed time I’m supposed to fight with Murdac.

“It won’t be easy for her, will it, Robin? Rowena, I mean; especially as she has no man and the baby will be a, you know, bastard.”

“She is a resourceful girl,” I tell him, my jaw tight. _Resourceful enough,_ I think, _to latch onto me like a louse on a filthy head of hair_. “I’m sure she will be fine.”

“I could marry her,” he says.

Luke stumbles over an exposed root and I grab his shirt to keep him from falling.

“You, marry her?”

“I am not so much younger than she is,” he says, somewhat defensively. “And I have a house and my carpentry to live by. I could even build another room for the baby and—”

He stumbles again and slows his furious pace, for which I am grateful even though I am fearful of not catching up with Guy.

“I’m being stupid,” he says, concentrating on the track in front of him. “Rowena doesn’t want me. The only person she’s ever wanted, the only man she ever talks about, is you.” He glances at me and then returns his attention to the leaf-strewn ground. “Perhaps you could marry her. I mean when you’re not an outlaw any more. If you wanted to, that is.”

I hold my tongue on my thoughts about that particular course of action and instead say, “Luke, I know you’re worried about her, but right now I have other things to think of.”

The moment I say these words, my resentment towards Rowena melts away. She may be resourceful, but that particular attribute did not save her from the sheriff’s unholy attack. God willing that I make it to the castle before sundown, I swear will do my utmost to plunge a sword into Murdac’s black heart.

“If I ever see that man, I will put an arrow in him.” Luke raises his longbow as though he expects Murdac to come walking towards us at any moment, happy to oblige. “I don’t care if it’s wrong.” 

“You’ll have to get past me first,” I tell him.

“You’ll beat the sheriff and all those men at the castle, won’t you? You’ll make things right, just like you always do?”

“I will do my best.”

We reach a fork in the track – one way leading to Locksley, the other to Nottingham – and come to a stop.  

“Do you want me to come with you?” Luke asks, “in case I can help?

“No. But I could do with borrowing your bow and arrows.”

Luke hands me his longbow and unbuckles his quiver. “I hope you manage to help your friend.”

“So do I.”

Luke says goodbye and starts walking down the track to Locksley. I adjust the straps on his quiver, buckle it on and charge down the track towards Nottingham, praying that I have not wasted too much time and can catch up with Guy before he makes a terrible mistake.

 ~

Reaching the edge of the forest, I scan the open grassland lying between the tree line and Nottingham’s walls. Guy is nowhere in sight. What did I think? That I would find him only yards ahead of me despite the fact that I lost time escaping my bonds and then talking to Luke.

I plonk onto the ground and rub my eyes, scratchy from lack of sleep. Dawn has given way to day, a blindingly bright March sun climbing into the pale blue sky.

Letting out a dry sob, I bury my face in my hands. Either Guy has safely entered the town and is even now telling anyone who’ll listen that the renowned Robin Hood beds men, or he has been captured and is imprisoned in the castle dungeons, waiting for Murdac’s men to prise the location of our forest hideout out of him. Of course, he might be wining and dining in the Great Hall, receiving a pat on the back for revealing that Richard the Lionheart is camped a few short miles away, minus his army.

I come to my feet, unsure what to do next.

A robin’s staccato alarm call alerts me to heavy footfalls. I duck down behind a clump of tall grass. It’s one person.

Taking a chance, my heart thumping wildly, I stand. A flash of black moves through the trees several yards to my right. A heartbeat later, Guy emerges from the forest and continues running across the grassy plain.

I call his name, but he keeps running. Still calling, I take off after him.

“Guy! Stop!”

He lowers his head and runs faster, his long hair flying out behind him.

Blood pumping, inhaling great mouthfuls of throat-stinging air, I run faster, closing the gap between us. Gaining on him, I yell again.

“Guy! You don’t have to do this. The child isn’t mine. Do you hear me? It’s not mine.”

I glance up at the town walls, long enough to see at least a dozen archers readying bows and arrows. Is this how Guy and I die? Cut down in a hail of ash and steel.

He slows and I heave a sigh of relief as the first volley of arrows wings its way harmlessly through the sky, falling short of both Guy and myself.

Coming to a standstill and turning around, Guy shouts, “You lie.”

“No, I—”

He turns back towards Nottingham and resumes running, risking the archers’ lethal arrows. But the archers don’t loose a second time. Indeed, they lower their bows.

A few yards short of the closed gate, Guy stops and raises his arms in surrender.

“I wish to speak to the sheriff,” he shouts. “I am unarmed, unlike the outlaw chasing me. Let me in before he sticks me with an arrow. I demand the protection of the Sheriff of Nottingham.”

The wooden gate swings open. Keeping his arms raised, he walks towards it. 

“It’s the truth,” I shout.

Guy swivels round to face me, walking backwards.

I don’t care that the men standing on the walkway above the gatehouse might hear us.  I don’t care about anything other than stopping Guy from going through that gate. 

“Guy, please listen to me.” 

I glance at the archers standing atop the gatehouse, half expecting them to start sending arrows in my direction. But no orders are given and no arrows fly towards me. I had wondered whether Murdac’s request that I come to the castle and fight him was no more than a ruse to get me to show myself so that the sheriff could get his men to end the life of Robin Hood in no more than a blink of the eye. I was wrong. He wants me alive. He wants to face me, knight to knight, to avenge his brother and have me die at his hands. And face him I will, but first I have to stop Guy from entering Nottingham.

I reach out a hand, the one devoid of my ring. “Guy, you need to know that—”

“What?” he snarls. “What do I need to know? That the great Robin Hood has decided he would rather spend his days with me than with the woman who carries his flesh and blood?”

I step towards him until only a couple of yards separate us.

“Yes,” I tell him, keeping my voice low, aware of the archers overhead. “I would rather spend my days with you, because the child is not mine. Honestly. And . . . and because I love you. I know I should have told you before, but I—”

“No,” he says, vehemently shaking his head. “You will say anything to save that precious king of yours. Last evening, you told me the girl was having your child and now you say it isn’t yours. Your lies are worse than the worse ones of Allan a-Dale.” 

“No, it’s the truth.  I can explain. I—”

He turns around and walks towards the open gate, arms still raised.

“Don’t,” I implore.

“Go to hell, Robin.”

He strides through the open gate, men-at-arms closing in around him as he does so.

I take a few faltering steps towards the gate and stop. Neither arrows nor threats come my way. The guard at Guy’s back turns and beckons me to follow him. I am free to enter the town, it seems. 

With a shake of my head, I back away. Murdac wants me to face him, but he gave me until sundown and I need to first warn both the gang and the king that trouble might be heading their way should Guy tell all. I also need to sleep, if only for a short time. I am shattered, having been up all night, and cannot possibly hope to best Murdac if I haven’t the energy to lift a sword, let alone wield one.

“You tell the sheriff,” I shout, “that he has until sundown. You tell him that Robin Hood will be back. And you also tell him, that if Locksley burns or if he hurts Gisborne in the meantime, I’ll do to him what I did to his brother. And that’s not a threat, it’s a promise.”

I keep backing away and when I am far enough away that I can no longer make out the face of the helmeted man-at-arms, the great wooden gate swings shut.

 


	33. When all is said and done

“Let me get this straight – you’re not the father?”

I nod and Much, busily dabbing at my bloody scalp, tuts in annoyance.

“As I told you, Murdac’s the father, not me.”

“And Luke told you this?” Allan pushes off the tree he’s been lolling against. “Little Luke Scarlett?”

“Not so little now,” I remind him. “And, yes, Luke told me.”

“So, you go off with Guy to tell him it’s all over between the two of you and you’re going to play happy families with Rowena, and the next thing we know you come charging back into the camp telling us that according to Luke Scarlett, who just happens to be wandering around the forest in the middle of the night, the baby’s not yours. Next, you’ll be telling us there are fairies in the forest. I reckon that bump to the head has—”

“Allan!” John thumps the end of his staff on the ground. “Shut up.”

“Pardon me for living, I’m sure.”

John turns to me. “Is it true?”

“Yes. Rowena decided to risk going to Nottingham to find a doctor when Elisabeth was sick. Murdac’s men caught her and took her back to the castle, and that was when Murdac raped her. This was shortly before we returned to Nottingham.”

Much digs his fingernails into my wounded scalp, unaware he is hurting me. I let it pass. I know he cared for Rowena and the thought of a man violating her in such a manner is a brutal reminder of similar atrocities we witnessed during the crusades, atrocities we never speak of because I forbade it.

“Then why,” Allan asks, “did she say the baby was yours?”

“She didn’t.”

“Sorry, you’ve lost me now.”

“Do you remember when she came here, just before she led us to the king’s camp?”

“Aye,” John says.

“She seemed unwell and when we asked her if she was all right she told us there was sickness in Clun.”

“Winter ailments,” John reminds us.

“I had a feeling there was more to it than that, only I couldn’t put my finger on it. I’m afraid I was too busy worrying about Guy and what Christophe might do to him to properly notice she had something weighing on her mind.”

“So then what?” Allan asks.

“When Rowena and I were talking to Richard, she unfortunately chose that moment to be ill. Richard put two and two together and so did I. I had no reason to believe the child could be anyone’s other than mine.

“Which is why you proposed to her?”

“Yes.”

Allan grins. “Crafty girl.”

John elbows him in the ribs.

“What? I’m just saying.”

“How,” Much fumes, slapping the piece of cloth he’s been tenderly pressing to my head into a bowl of water, “can you be so, so . . . heartless?”

“Look, I’m not saying I blame her, but this isn’t the first time she’s pulled a fast one. If you remember, she was masquerading as Robin’s sister until she was tumbled by the villagers.”

“And if _you_ remember,” Much retorts, “she decided to help those villagers, to bring them food and medicine, to do all the things that Marian used to— Sorry, Robin.”

I lay a placating hand on his arm. “It’s all right. Don’t ever be afraid of talking about her, any of you. She was part of our lives, of my life, and I don’t want to forget her or what she did.”

“Still, you’ve got to admit,” Allan says, carefully moving out of reach of John’s elbows, “that was clever of her. Think about it. She’s got no home of her own, no monies, while you’ve got . . . well, not a whole heap of monies since you’ve given all of it away, but lands at least, or you will have when the king gives you your title back.”

“At the rate I’m going, I think Richard is as likely to slap me in irons as he is to revoke my outlaw status.”

“Anyway, what did Guy have to say about it?”

“He doesn’t know. He’d already gone before I ran into Luke.”

“Ah, that explains the bash on the head.”

“He hit me, with a branch.”

“Remind me to keep on his good side. Where is he, anyway? Gone back to Locksley to lick his wounds?”

Much places the water bowl by my side and comes round to stand in front of me, his eyes beseeching me to tell him what he wants to hear, what he’s wanted to hear ever since that fateful day we found Guy, sick and feverish, in our forest camp – that Guy and I are a thing of the past.

I glance at the sky. It is close to midday.  

“Robin?” John knows I am keeping something from them.

I stand, rolling my shoulders and flexing my arms and legs. 

“Guy has gone to Nottingham.”

“Nottingham?” Allan says. “What for?”

“To ruin my good name and maybe tell the sheriff about the king.”

“Good,” Much says, taking a step away from me. “I don’t mean good that he’s going to tell everyone about the king and stuff, but good that he’s gone. I know you liked him, but—”

“Liked!” John thunders, rounding on Much. 

“John, don’t,” I warn.

Big, kind-hearted Little John.  Even though he will never understand my dark and dangerous relationship with Guy, he has at least realised and accepted the depth of my feelings for the man.

Allan shakes his head. “He’ll never get in. Nottingham’s closed for business. No one gets past the gate unless they either belong to Prince John’s lot or they’ve got wares worth having.”

“Guy is not as stupid as you all seem to think,” I say.

“Yeah, but he’s not exactly subtle, is he?”

“Nevertheless, he’s already in Nottingham.”

“You know this?” John asks. “How?”

“Because I chased after him and caught up with him outside the town walls.”

“You spoke to him, told him about Rowena?”

“I tried to, but he wouldn’t listen.”

“I’m not surprised,” Allan says. “I mean what are the chances of Robin running into someone in this ruddy great forest, in the middle of the night, who just happens to know Rowena’s been telling porky pies?”

“Luke didn’t know about Rowena and me or about our proposed marriage. As far as he is concerned, she decided to keep the father’s identity a secret out of shame.”

“Still, it was a bit of a coincidence that—”

“I have to get Guy out and fast,” I say, cutting Allan off. “Both the king and our camp are in danger if he decides to play nasty.”

“I’m not being funny, Robin, but Guy may have already ratted on us, and the king, have you thought of that?”

Allan is right. In the time it took me to run back to the camp, Guy may have revealed all to the sheriff.

“There is something else,” I say, running a hand through my damp hair.

Much screws up his face. “I _knew_ you were going to say that.”

“When I ran into Luke, it was not by accident. He was looking for me, to give me a message from Murdac.”

“Why,” Allan says, “have I got the feeling this is not an invite to join him for scones and ale and a game of dice?”

“Murdac wants me to come to the castle. He wants us to fight. Just the two of us.”

“You mean as in swords?” Much asks.

“No, feather dusters,” Allan quips. “What do you think?”

“But why?”

“Well it’s obvious, ain’t it? Robin killed Murdac’s brother.”

Much turns to me. “Yes, but why does he want to fight you personally? Why not just hunt you down and kill you?”

“Much, my friend, Murdac had all winter to catch me, to take revenge. But he didn’t. Why do you think that is?”

“Maybe he changed his mind.”

“Possibly, but you’ll recall that Murdac had been ill, dangerously so from what little we’ve been told, and I think he was waiting until he was recovered before summoning me to face him.”

“You can’t know that.”

“It’s the only explanation.”

“Even so, that still doesn’t mean this isn’t just a trick to get you to walk into Nottingham of your own free will.”

“I know, but there were enough archers on that gate for one of them to stick an arrow in me, several arrows, in fact. Someone gave them the order to stand down. An order like that could only have come from the sheriff or his master-at-arms.”

“It could be a trap,” John says.

“I’ve considered that, but I don’t have a choice. Murdac has threatened to burn Locksley to the ground if I don’t show up.”

“So move the villagers out,” Allan suggests. 

“No. Locksley is their home. It’s all they’ve got. I will not see it destroyed. It’s my home, too, or will be one day, God willing.”

“Then let the king deal with Murdac. You’re in no fit state to—”

“No. I cannot wait for Richard. Murdac has given me until sundown – today.”

Much looks skywards.

“I’m sorry, Much, but I have to go. It’s the only way.”

“No, you can’t. You can’t keep sacrificing yourself for other people. I won’t let you. I’ll rope you to a tree or hit you on the head . . . well, maybe not the head because I’ve just fixed it, but either way I’ll—”

“Much, that’s enough. My mind’s made up.”

“Not wanting to be the harbinger of doom or anything,” Allan says, “but what if you don’t win this fight, Robin? What then? Surely there’s nothing to stop Murdac from burning Locksley just for the heck of it.”

“Then I’ll have to make sure I win, won’t I.”

“What do you want us to do?” John asks, ever practical.

“We need to warn the king that he and his men might be in danger, get him to move his camp or at least make ready for attack. Much can do that. Allan, I want you to get into Nottingham. I don’t care how you do it. I want you to find out where Guy is and, if he is a prisoner in the castle, I want you to find out if he’s in the dungeons or elsewhere. I also want to know if Murdac has as many men as we are led to believe.”

“Right,” Allan says, smacking his hands together. “I can blag my way past the gatehouse, snag a guard’s uniform and then get into the castle through the servants’ tunnel, the one in the old brewhouse yard, next to the Trip. The one I told you about.”

“Entering the castle will be risky,” I tell him. “Even disguised as one of Murdac’s men, you’ll have a hard time explaining yourself if you’re caught somewhere you shouldn’t be. As for the gatehouse, I’m not sure even your tricksy mouth will fool the current gatekeepers.”

“What about the west gate?” John asks.

“Blocked up,” Allan says. “I heard the sheriff wants to keep tracks on everyone entering and exiting Nottingham and having only one way in and out makes that entirely possible. Nah, the only way in is through the front door. Come on, Robin. When have I ever not been able to lie my way in and out of things?”

“I can think of a few times, actually.”

“What about the other tunnel?” John says. “The one Guy told us about, Vaisey’s escape route.”

“And how’s that any better than my way?” Allan says. “I’ll still end up in the castle, won’t I?”

“Because that way,” I say, “you won’t have to use the front door, as you put it. We know the tunnel’s entrance is in a derelict churchyard, beyond the town walls. Guy didn’t get the chance to tell me where in the churchyard it was because Christophe attacked us before we got there, but it surely can’t be that hard to find. At least that way you can avoid chancing your arm at the gatehouse.”

“It’s not my arm I’m worried about. Also, that tunnel comes out in the Great Hall whereas the other one will get me into the servants’ quarters, a safer bet, I’d say. Less chance of me getting caught.”

“All right,” I say. “Get in whatever way you think best.” A thought occurs. “You might be able to move about quite freely once you’re in. Think about it. I’ll be fighting Murdac. Who in the castle is not going to want to watch Robin Hood battle it out with the Sheriff of Nottingham?”

I realise how ridiculous I must sound, talking as though Robin Hood is someone separate from the battered, heartsore man standing in front of his friends.

“Not being funny, but what’s to say this Murdac fellow isn’t some giant of a man? Look at you, bashed about more than the poor squirrels Much tries whacking out of the trees.”

Much scowls and I hold up my hand, warning him not to start mouthing off at Allan.

“Allan, Murdac’s brother was no hulk and, if I recall correctly, he was slow and clumsy, which is why you and Rowena escaped relatively unscathed and why I was able to take his life.”

“Yeah, but just because the brother was nothing impressive, that don’t mean Murdac ain’t.”

“I think if Murdac were remarkable in any way, we’d have heard of it by now. He’s just a man and men can be killed.”

“My whole point, Robin.”

“We’ve talked long enough,” I say, glancing at the sky. “I need to get some sleep, short though it may be, or I’ll be no good to anyone let alone fighting the sheriff. John, promise me you’ll wake me in good time to get to Nottingham.”

“I promise.”

When Much opens his mouth, I expect further protest. Instead, he asks, “Do I really have to go to the king’s camp? Can’t John go?”

“No, it has to be you. You were in the king’s private guard. He trusts you, and he’ll believe you.”

“What shall I tell him?”

“Tell him there is a risk of his whereabouts becoming common knowledge, that he and his men might be in danger and should take every precaution.”

“You don’t want me to tell him about Guy or this fight you’re supposed to be having with the sheriff?”

“No.”

“You still think you can win Guy back, don’t you? That the king might pardon him if Guy stands by you, that you and he can go and live happily ever after, in Locksley?”

“I don’t think there will be a happily ever after, for either of us.”

“I can’t lie to the King of England.”

“It isn’t lying.”

“And it isn’t telling the truth either.”

“Say what you will then. As long as you make Richard understand that he may not be safe.”

“Very well, I will go to the king’s camp. But if, while I am gone, you die, then you should know that I, too, will die . . . of a broken heart.”

“Then I shall do my best not to come to any harm. Now, grab what you need and go.”

Much goes to hug me, but I step away saying I must get some sleep. I can’t be doing with any tearful goodbyes.

“Wake me,” I remind John.

John nods.

“Deer for supper tonight,” Much calls as he heads past our sleeping area.

“Make sure you save me a piece,” I call back.

A short while later, John duly wakes me and I make my way back to Nottingham to face Murdac.

 


	34. Come What May

“Do it,” Guy shouts.

In the shadowy courtyard of Nottingham Castle, the March sun already well below the battlements, we had voiced an agreement, noble-born men that we are, on the rules of our fight and what the victor stands to gain.

I had been right about Murdac: he is no giant of a man. Shortly after our fight began, it became obvious to me he had once been a knight with a quick eye and an equally quick sword arm, but recent years spent in relative idleness, commanding other men to do his bidding, have taken their toll on both his midriff and his ease of movement.

“Yes, do it,” Ralph Murdac, the new Sheriff of Nottingham, growls. The fingernails of his sword hand claw the hard-packed earth, even though his weapon lies out of reach since I knocked it from his hand. “Take my life, as we agreed.”

Murdac had drawn first blood, cutting my upper right arm, adding a new injury to the old.  I foul-mouthed my God, nearly dropped my sword, feared my death was only moments away.  

“Robin,” Guy cried, from somewhere towards the main castle steps. 

Hearing him call my name pumped fresh blood into my wearied limbs and gave me resolve. A few more parries and clashes of steel and I saw my chance, saw what many a man would not: Murdac slightly favouring his left leg – an old injury perhaps or the result of whatever illness he had recently suffered. It was enough for me, and now Murdac is the one facing death, the sole of my boot grinding into his chest, the tip of my sword pressing into his fleshy neck.

We had agreed – as we lifted our shirts to reveal no hidden cuirass, no concealed daggers, as we showed our swords and declared them equal enough – that this fight would end only when one of us lies dead. We had agreed that Murdac’s death would secure Guy’s release and guarantee his and my safe passage out of Nottingham, as well as the safety of Locksley, and that my death would result in the forfeit of my house and lands, the hanging of Guy and the gallows for my gang, once caught.

Blood from my cut arm trickles down the back of my sword hand, runs the length of my blade and pools in the hollow of Murdac’s throat. His close-set brown eyes stare at me boldly, but there is fear in his body. He is trembling beneath my boot.

“You heard our words,” I direct at the men assembled in the courtyard, “and you are honour-bound to observe them. When this man lies dead, Gisborne and I go free.” No one speaks, though one or two of the men-at-arms incline their heads. “I will be quick,” I tell Murdac.

A foul odour, neither blood nor sweat, fills my nostrils; a stench I recognise from the bloody slaughter in the Holy Land. It is the body’s shameful betrayal when a man knows he is but a heartbeat from entering Heaven or Hell. 

I ready my sword, preparing to sever the life-giving cords in Murdac’s neck. He flinches and squeezes his eyes shut.

“No!” An anguished cry from Murdac’s second – a skinny man, with straggly blond hair and a mouthful of rotting teeth.

I hesitate, not because of the man’s outcry, but because of a memory, a vision of Guy lying on the forest floor, my blade at his throat. 

“I am going to kill you,” I had said.

Little John had protested: “Killing we do not do.” And Will Scarlett had added: “It’s what you taught us.”

“No one need die here today,” I say, my sword still hovering above the sheriff’s bobbing throat.

Murdac’s eyes flicker open, surprise quickly turning to hope. A thin, knowing smile tugs at his winter-cracked lips. 

Guy swears, cries out as though in pain. I imagine him struggling against his guards, but I dare not take my eyes off the sheriff.

“Then what,” Murdac says, licking his lips, “do you propose? That we say you have won and I let you and him walk freely from the castle?”

“That’s the general idea.”

I had seen, out the tail of my eye, the blond master-at-arms’ less than subtle unsheathing of his sword. It is enough to convince me that the softly spoken words that passed between him and the sheriff, as he straightened Murdac’s shirtfront and fussed with its lacings, were not words of encouragement, but words of what he should do should Murdac find himself at the losing end of the fight.

I whirl round. The toe of my boot crunches into the man’s sword hand. Cursing, he drops his weapon. Without missing a beat, I point the tip of my sword at Murdac’s chest.

“Get up or you die here, now. As the victor I have the right to do what I wish with your body, and I can assure you, you will be laid out in the clothes that you wear and your men shall know of the Sheriff of Nottingham’s weak stomach for death.”

Murdac flicks his eyes past my killing arm.

“Do so much as blink and he dies,” I warn the master-at-arms. “You, too.”

“You cannot escape, Robin Hood,” Murdac says with a grim smile of satisfaction. “Whether it’s within these walls or outside them or in your humble village of Locksley, you will die.” 

“I fully expect to,” I tell him, “but not today. Stand.”

As Murdac staggers to his feet, I quickly skirt round him and lay the edge of my sword against his exposed neck. I grasp his shirt with my free hand, a preventative measure in case he decides to chance his arm and make a dash for freedom.

“Now what?” he asks.

“Now, you and I are going to take a walk. But first, you will order your men to let Gisborne go.”

I look across the courtyard. Guy is midway down the castle steps, standing between two guards, arms shackled behind his back. I cannot tell if his legs are free or not.  

“And if I don’t?”

“Then I will kill you.”

“I don’t believe you. The stories my men bring back from the tavern have proved correct.  Robin Hood has lost his taste for blood, as well as his taste for females.” 

My sword hand twitches. “You forget your brother. Order your men to release Gisborne or I swear to you the only thing you will taste is the blood in your mouth as you bite through your tongue when my sword parts your head from your neck.” 

“I am ready for my death, will accept it, if it means the end of you.”

I do not need to see his face to know that Murdac has regained the composure he had as I walked into the castle courtyard and declared myself ready to face him in a one-on-one fight. _Damn._

The portcullis is behind me, lowered. I don’t stand a chance, Guy even less. 

“Kill him, Robin, and be done with it,” Guy shouts. “We’re done for anyway.”

Not so long ago – Guy’s sword-tip pressing into the king’s broad chest, Christophe’s dagger at my throat – I told Richard that I believe there is a way out of any tight spot. I think he would be intrigued to see how I am going to get out of this particular one.

“Hear this,” I tell the hushed courtyard. Slowly, I back towards the portcullis, still clutching Murdac’s shirt, pulling him with me. “King Richard is on these shores. He camps not many miles from Nottingham, his army with him. They come to retake Nottingham Castle, peaceably if possible, by force if necessary.”

If Richard wants his castle back, and if he wants me to help him accomplish it, then by God I’m going to use him to get Guy and me out of here, alive.

The men-at-arms shuffle their feet, bend towards their neighbour’s ear to whisper their thoughts at my unexpected revelation.

“King Richard will spare the life of any man here willing to surrender arms. He will ask nothing more than a pledge of coin and an oath to serve under his banner, the rightful King of England.”

The whispers become louder.

“He is lying,” Murdac shouts.

“It is no lie,” Guy retorts, stumbling a short way down the steps, only to be grabbed by his guards. “The Lionheart is here. I have seen him with my own eyes. Robin Hood speaks the truth.”

A number of men-at-arms turn their heads towards Guy, a handful nodding at one another.  I suspect some of them are Vaisey’s old guards, those that chose to stay on in the castle and serve under Murdac. They turn their attention back to me, attentive. 

“So,” I say, “you have a choice. Show yourselves to be more honourable men than your sheriff here and allow Sir Guy and myself safe passage out of Nottingham, whereupon I will let this man live, either to lead you into battle or to arrange terms of surrender with King Richard. Or, I kill him, now, following which you will kill me, because you are many, and I am one man with nothing but a sword to defend myself.” 

The men-at-arms glance at one another. Some remove their helmets, wanting to see each other’s faces plainly, to better judge what their comrades think of my words.

The sheriff’s master-at-arms sheathes his sword. Some of the assembled men-at-arms – those who drew their weapons as I dragged Murdac towards the gate – do likewise. It is clear they are considering King Richard’s more than generous terms of surrender and that they are thinking of their own lives, of the homes, wives and ladyloves they have not seen for many months and of the long winter spent defending a castle for a would-be monarch who fled abroad at the first sign of trouble. Certainly none of them is keen to take on the role of the man who must speak for the castle, who must face the mighty Lionheart. Little do they know that I made those terms up, God forgive me. I only hope that if this works I can somehow persuade Richard to honour them.   

“Open the portcullis,” the sheriff’s deputy barks at the men guarding the castle gateway. Then to me, “You will let him go?” 

“Not until Gisborne is unshackled and stands at my side.”

He regards the sheriff and, after a moment’s hesitation, Murdac orders his men to release Guy. Behind me, I hear the portcullis’s clink and clank as it rises.

Freed from his irons, Guy makes his way towards me, a man-at-arms on either side of him. 

“Step back,” I tell his gaolers. 

Murdac grunts his assent and the men slowly back away.

Guy rubs his reddened wrists and moves to stand beside me. As far as I can tell, he is unharmed, his leathers a little dusty but intact, his easy movement suggesting no bodily tortures, his face bearing no sign of ill-treatment. Relief floods through me.

“Now,” I say to Murdac, “we are going to make our way through the gateway, and when we are clear of the castle, you will order your men to drop the portcullis. Then, I will let you go.”

“Do you think me a fool? The moment they drop the portcullis you will kill me.”

“If you don’t give them the order, then I will kill you.” I dig my blade into Murdac’s neck, leaking blood this time.

“Very well.” Grudgingly, Murdac tells the men to drop the portcullis once we are beyond the castle courtyard.

“Ready?” I ask Guy.

“Yes, ready.”

Cautiously, we step backwards, under the raised portcullis, until we are several paces clear of the castle gate. Still clutching Murdac’s shirt, the steely edge of my blade pressing into his sweaty, thinly bleeding neck, we watch the steady descent of the iron-spiked barricade.

“Consider yourself fortunate it is me and not Gisborne here who is holding the sword.” I shove Murdac with enough force that he stumbles and falls, landing face down in the horse-churned mud in front of the castle gate.

I grab Guy’s arm. “Come on.” 

Turning our backs on the castle, we break into a run, the clanking of the rising portcullis and the barked commands of the shamed and enraged sheriff warning us that we are still far from safe.

We skirt past Blight’s house and charge down an adjoining alleyway.

“In here,” I call, ducking behind a wall of drying sheets. Guy crashes in after me, cursing as he becomes ensnared in the linen.

Shoving aside a handful of rush mats, I retrieve Guy’s broadsword, my arrow-stuffed quiver and my precious bow.

“Here,” I say, handing Guy his sword.

Poking my head around the sheets and finding no sign of pursuit, we head for the west gate. Allan warned us that the gate was impassable. All I can hope is that impassable does not mean impossible.

“You’re a fool,” Guy says. “You should have killed the bastard while you had the chance.”

“Murdac had no intention of letting you go or allowing me to live, you know that. Holding him hostage was the only way I had of getting us out of there.”

“And mentioning the king.”

“And that, yes.”

Guy turns fearful eyes towards me. I hear it too: the barking and yapping of dogs. Dogs that will tear us to pieces if they catch us. Grabbing his arm, I pull him down yet another narrow passageway. 

I sneak a quick look around the corner of the Trip Inn. There are at least a dozen men-at-arms heading our way. The dogs’ barks are getting louder.

“The town gate?” Guy whispers.

I shake my head. “Impossible.”

He unsheathes his sword. “I guess we always knew our time was going to run out.”

Wincing, I whip an arrow from my quiver and quickly nock it. My right shirtsleeve is torn and blood-soaked.

Guy glances at my raised bow and smiles. His faith in my ability brings tears to my eyes – there must be well over a hundred armed men in that castle.

“Psst, Robin.”

I look up. Allan is leaning out of a first floor window.

“Allan, what the—?”

“Inside, quick.” He inclines his head towards the Trip’s front door and then disappears.

“Don’t be stupid, we’ll—”

Guy gets no further as, gripping his leather doublet, I yank him into the poorly lit, ale-fumed inn. 

With a curt nod at the Trip’s owners – a man and a woman whose names I should know but don’t – I follow Allan, dragging Guy behind me. I’m half-expecting him to lead us to a back door. Instead, he turns down a dark passageway and opens a wide door that leads to the Trip’s cellars. 

“Allan, we’ll be trapped if—”

“Trust me,” he says.

The thudding of heavy boots on the Trip’s ale-stained floor and the snarling of dogs straining at their leashes leave us little option but to follow Allan into the gloomy, barrel-filled cellar.

“This is madness,” Guy says. “This is the first place they’ll look.”

Allan shoves a hand down his shirtfront and produces a set of wooden keys dangling from a thin leather strap looped around his neck.

“Oh, and locking the door is going to keep them out, is it?” Guy says.

“Not locking, unlocking.”

At the sound of the cellar door opening, Guy whips round, sword raised. I shake my head  at him and raise my hands in surrender. 

“Oh, dear lord,” a female voice says. “You’re hurt.”

Dropping my upraised arms, I swivel round. It is the alehouse owner’s wife.

“He’ll live,” Allan says roughly. “Just do what I told you, all right?”

The woman meekly nods.

Allan tips and rolls a couple of barrels out of his way and pushes aside a faded wall hanging. Behind it is a narrow door, less than chest height. 

“Tunnel,” he explains, pushing one of the keys into the lock and opening the door.  

I can hear the Trip’s owner – Eustace, I now recall – trading angry words with a man-at-arms, something about them already having taken most of the tavern’s ale and that they can’t have any more.

“Quick, inside,” Allan says.

Crouching, we squeeze through the small door and Allan swiftly re-locks it. I hear the scraping of barrels and guess that the woman is hiding the evidence of our escape route.

I turn to face Allan.

“What?” he says with a shrug. “You’re not the only one around here who can come up with a decent escape plan.” 

He grabs a flaming torch wedged in a gouge in the damp sandstone wall and starts walking down the tunnel.

Guy nods towards the locked door. “They’ll give us away.”

“No, they won’t,” Allan calls over his shoulder. “I’m a regular customer, they know me.  Besides, I bought their silence.”

“How?” Guy stoops to avoid hitting his head on the tunnel’s low ceiling.

“Told them you’d kill their children if they breathe a word of our whereabouts.”

“I do not kill children.”

“Yeah, well, they’re not to know that.”

Eager to deflect yet another one of Guy and Allan’s petty arguments, I say, “This tunnel leads to the castle, doesn’t it?”

“Christ’s blood,” Guy snaps. “We’ve just come from the castle.” He rises to full height and smacks his head on the tunnel’s roof. “Fuck!”

“Don’t worry,” Allan says. “We’re not going to the castle.”

“I’m sure Allan knows what he’s doing,” I say, laying a placating hand on Guy’s arm.

“He’d better. One day in those stinking dungeons is enough for me.” 

“Go on.” I motion Allan to keep walking. 

When Guy makes to follow, I grab his sleeve.

“What?” he snarls, rubbing his bashed head with his free hand.

“I haven’t had the chance to ask what happened to you after you threw yourself on the sheriff’s mercy.”

“Nothing happened, other than that dog turd locking me in the dungeons. I guess he thought I might prove useful in convincing you to show your face.”

“Which I did.”

“Yes, to save your precious Locksley.” 

He tugs his arm from my grip.

“Is that what you believe?”

“Why else would you take such a stupid risk?”

Allan rounds a bend and, without the torch’s flickering light, we are plunged into darkness.

“We should keep moving,” I say.

“Fine.” 

Guy moves away, and my outstretched arm – the one that would draw him close so I might easier speak what is in my heart – falls into empty space.

After a few more twists and turns, we reach a dead end, which turns out not to be a dead end at all, but another locked door.

“Let me guess,” I say to Allan. “You have a key?”

Allan grins. “You’re catching on.” He waggles the key-threaded leather strap at me.

He unlocks and opens the door and we step into what appears to be another cellar. Closer inspection, however, proves that, unlike the one leading off the Trip, this one is unused.

“What is this place?” I ask.

“Don’t you get it? This is the old cellar, the one under the brewhouse yard. The one they used before they built the new buttery inside the castle walls.”

“So it’s not used any more?”

“Nah, hasn’t been used in ages. Tom and I used to . . . well, it don’t matter now. The important thing is, no one knows or remembers it’s here, apart from the Trip’s owners and, like I said, they ain’t saying nothing.”

“And what,” Guy asks, “are we supposed to do now? Stay here until they’re fed up looking for us and then calmly make our way out of Nottingham?”

“No, we wait for our knights in shining armour, or rather our nuns in shining armour.”

“Nuns?” Guy queries.

“I can explain.”

Allan lights a second torch with the first, giving us extra light.

Glad to rest my aching legs, I sit on an upturned barrel.

“So explain,” I say, “because right now I can’t help but think that any time soon armed men are going to be dropping in on us.” I nod towards the rough sandstone-hewn ceiling. “If I’m not mistaken, that’s the hatchway leading to the old brew-yard.”

“Great,” Guy mutters.

“It’s all right,” Allan says, somewhat smugly. “Someone’s plonked the town stocks on top of it.”

“What about the entrance from the castle?” I ask, indicating the door on the far side of the cellar.

“Long forgotten. When I was working with Gis— I mean the last time I was in the castle, I went and had a look for it. A tapestry is covering it and there’s a ruddy great chest in front of that.”

“That would be when you were advising the sheriff of Robin’s ways in and out of the castle, would it?” Guy says.

“I was stuck, all right. I did what I did, no thanks to you.”

“Why didn’t you tell the sheriff about this tunnel?” Guy asks.

“Look, I had to keep one escape route secret in case I ever needed it.”

“Allan,” I interrupt. “Just tell us what you have in mind.”

Relieved he has my trust at least, Allan continues. “Well, obviously going out the main gate is impossible. It’s swarming with castle guards.”

“So how did you get into Nottingham?” Guy asks. “Catapult? Dressed as a washerwoman?   Extra large hood?”

Allan grins. “I got in with the nuns.”

“They would be the nuns in shining armour, would they?” I ask.

“That’s right. You know me, Robin. I’m good with nuns. When I left the camp, I went to the old churchyard, thought I’d try getting in through Guy’s tunnel.” Allan glances between Guy and me. “I’d make a joke about that, but I guess now is not the time.”

“No,” I say sternly. “Now is not the time. Go on.”

“It was a no go. Caved in.”

“Deliberately?”

“No idea, but it would have taken me from now until Christ’s Mass to dig my way through all the fallen rocks and stuff. Anyway, being in the churchyard got me thinking about the nuns at Kirklees.”

“And?”

“So I was thinking. Who, other than someone with enough gold and what not to bribe their way in, would the castle guards let through that gate?”

“Religious persons,” I supply. “Nuns, in this case.”

“Precisely.”

“You could never pass for a nun,” Guy points out.

“Didn’t have to. The nuns had a cart with a secret compartment underneath, smuggled me in in that. They went off to the castle to offer Murdac and his men a bit of religious succour and I went off to do a bit of snooping.”

“Why would nuns have carts with secret compartments underneath?”

“Well, Robin once had to—”

“And that’s when you came up with this idea?” I hastily interrupt, gesturing at the dusty, cobwebbed barrels. Recounting some of my earlier exploits in thievery can wait; I’m sure Guy would prefer to forget the many times I managed to outwit both him and Vaisey.

“That’s right. I figured if you got out the castle alive, you’d need a hiding place, at least until you were ready to break out of Nottingham itself.”

“Wouldn’t it be better to stay here?” Guy suggests. “Surely the king and his army will be here any day now?”

“Guy, whatever I may think of Richard, I am not about to go back on my word. I promised him I would be by his side when he takes the castle and that’s what I intend to do. I’m the best archer in England and if the king, God forbid, should take an arrow or suffer a sword’s blow without me at least trying to prevent it, it will weigh on me for the rest of my days.”

Allan gives Guy an ‘I told you so’ look. “Getting out of Nottingham is where the nuns come in. Tomorrow morning, they’re going back to the abbey, and that’s when we make our escape.”

“Hidden in their cart?” Guy says.

“I admit it’ll be a squeeze, but I reckon we can do it. One of sister’s is going to pretend to be ill, so I doubt the gatekeepers will bother doing much of an inspection.”

“Of all the idiotic, ridiculous—” Guy begins.

“We’ve done the cart thing before,” Allan cuts in, “and it always worked. Besides, doing it this way means we get a bit of a kip before the whole running, fighting, avoiding capture thing starts up again.”

He’s looking at me when he says this. I know what he’s thinking. Right now, I don’t look as if I could blow my own nose, let alone make some daring, possibly dangerous, escape from a town under lock and key.

“That bit at least makes sense,” Guy says. Kneeling in front of me, he touches my injured arm. “Let me see.”

“It’s not deep.”

“Even so, it still needs tending.”

“Here.” Allan passes Guy a water skin.

“I’ll wet some cloth and clean you up that way.” Guy turns to Allan. “Give me your shirt.”

“Hang on. It’s enough to freeze your balls off in here, and—”

“Give me your shirt or your balls are not all you will lose.”

Muttering, Allan slips off his jerkin and pulls his shirt over his head.   

“You’ll have to take off your shirt, too,” Guy says to me.

Painfully, I ease my dirty, bloodstained shirt over my head. 

Guy sucks in a breath. My body is a mass of bruises, my slashed arm streaked with blood.

“Bleeding hell,” Allan says. “You look like you’ve just walked off a battlefield.”

“I feel like it.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“Yes. See if any of these butts still have ale in them.”

“Nah, they’re all empty. I already checked.”

“Well, check again,” I say, nodding towards Guy, intent on tearing off one of the sleeves of Allan’s shirt.

“I’m sure that . . . oh, right.” Allan glances between Guy and me, understanding dawning.

Walking to the far side of the cellar, he begins tapping barrels in the pretence of looking for ale.

Guy finishes cleaning my cut arm and binds it with Allan’s ripped shirt. “Stitches would be better, but I think this will stem the bleeding well enough.”

“Thank you.”

He unbuckles his doublet. “I know it’s not really your colour,” he says with a smile, “but it’ll be better than putting that bloody shirt back on. Warmer, too.” 

He holds the leather doublet behind my back and I ease my painful right arm into the sleeve, followed by my left. He fastens the clasps and, after glancing at Allan who is facing away from us, kisses me. I kiss him back and then pull away.

“Best not.”

“Can’t we get rid of Allan?” he asks.

“You mean, stick him out in that cold tunnel?”

“Just a thought.” 

He is smiling, overjoyed to know that he hasn’t lost me, that there’s still a chance for us to be together.

“There will be time enough,” I tell him. “When this is over.”

“I truly hope so. I would hate to think that our last night together will be spent shivering in a cold cellar with one of your henchmen lying no more than a hair’s-breadth away.”

“Oi, I heard that. And I am not a henchman.”

“The barrels,” Guy growls. 

Allan resumes his barrel tapping, whistling as well this time.

I lay my hand on Guy’s knee, intent on repeating what I said to him outside the gatehouse.

Guy lays his clean hand on top of my dirt and blood-smeared one, the one that once wore his ring, now lost somewhere under the fallen leaves of Sherwood.

I clear my throat. It took me long enough to tell Marian that I loved her. I don’t intend to make the same mistake with Guy.

“I need to tell you the other reason why I came to the castle today, the one that has nothing to do with Locksley and everything to do with you and me. What I said about the child is true. The baby is not mine. It’s Murdac’s.”

“The sheriff’s?”

“Yes. He forced himself on Rowena when she was working at the castle.”

Guy sits back on his haunches, digesting the information. “Even so. How can you be certain it’s not yours? You shared a bed with the girl. Don’t go telling me all you did was trade thieving tactics.”

“No.”

“You told me it was yours. You told me—”

“Listen to me.” I grasp both his hands. “After I escaped my bonds, I followed you to Nottingham. On the way, I ran into Luke Scarlett. He was looking for our camp, so he could give me a message from Murdac, summoning me to the castle. While we were talking, he told me that Rowena had confided in him about the baby. This was before I returned to Locksley. Before I met her.”

“And the other thing,” Guy says. “The thing you said to me outside the gatehouse. Did you mean it?”

“Yes, I meant it.”

He closes his eyes, blows out a long, grateful breath. I lean towards him, until our foreheads are touching. 

“Ahem,” Allan coughs. “Sorry to spoil the moment, but don’t you think we should try to get some sleep before Mother Superior comes knocking?” 

Straightening up, I let go of Guy’s hands. “You’re right, we should try to sleep. God knows, I could do with it.”

Allan holds up some empty grain sacks and a couple of thin blankets. “Not exactly Locksley or the camp, come to that, but it’s all I can find.”

“It’ll do,” I tell him.

We look at the cramped floor space, in between the barrels. 

“Now look, gents.” Allan flops down onto a sack and pulls one of the blankets up to his chin. “I know you’re pleased Guy’s alive and vice versa, but no funny business, all right, because I need my beauty sleep.”

“Allan, I couldn’t do funny business if my life depended on it,” I say. “Now go to sleep.”

He yawns. “My pleasure. Oh, and Guy?”

“What?”

“Just don’t roll over in the night thinking I’m Robin.”

“Trust me, I will not mistake you for Robin.”

A heartbeat goes by, and another, and another. The witty remark doesn’t come, Allan already drifting off.

Guy lies down and, after finding the leather doublet too uncomfortable to sleep in and removing it, I do likewise.  

Under the thin blanket, Guy finds my hand, squeezes it. “Whatever happens tomorrow, I want you to know that you mean the world to me and that if we are to die, then—”

“Shush. No one’s going to die. I’m Robin Hood, remember?”

He sits, removes his shirt and lies down again. He pulls the blanket over the two of us and wraps me in his arms, pressing his warm chest into my back. Moments later, I hear his familiar nighttime breaths and know he is asleep.

Unbelievably, with the help of the nuns of Kirklees, we escaped Nottingham. Two days later, we were with the king and his army, now at full strength.

It was time to retake Nottingham Castle.

 


	35. All the King's Men

Screaming, the man-at-arms drops his sword, gauntleted hands clawing at the arrow protruding from his eye. A heartbeat later, he crumples to the ground and dies. Good. Another one down. Another one who can’t hurt the king or my friends – or Guy.

“Bravo!” Richard booms. 

Smiling broadly at me, the king raises his sword arm in salute. Leaning from atop his magnificent white destrier, Richard barks into his standard-bearer’s ear. The young lad nods and lifts the pennant higher, shouting in a shrill voice, “Long live King Richard!”  

In acknowledgement, I tip my bow in Richard’s direction, though I do not return his smile.

“You hear that,” Richard roars. “I am Richard the Lionheart, King of England and this,” –he waves his great broadsword at the walls surrounding the castle courtyard – “is my castle and I want it back. Now!” 

If Murdac’s men doubted my earlier claim about the king being in Nottinghamshire, they don’t any longer. Even so, it is clear they are not yet ready to yield, or at least not while Murdac is still in command.

I glance around me, trying to spot Murdac’s squat, barrel-chested frame among the mass of fighting men and stamping horses, hoping that something other than a black surcoat decorated with red chevrons might mark him out from the rest of his knights and men-at-arms.

“Fighting,” Much grumbles, transferring his shield to his sword hand so he can adjust his helmet, knocked askew. “I hate fighting. If I don’t get my Bonchurch after this I will . . . I will . . .”

Whatever he is about to say has to wait, as two armed men bear down on us.

“Take the one on the left,” I tell him, pointing to be doubly sure Much knows which one I mean. 

My attacker is big, but he is also clumsy and, after a couple of ineffectual swipes with his sword, which I nimbly sidestep, I catch him under the chin, sending him stumbling backwards. I charge, slamming into his huge mailed chest. Cursing, he smacks onto the hard cobbles underfoot. Blood oozes from his split lips. A swift kick between his spread legs and he drops his sword with an agonised yelp. A heartbeat later, he is staring up at the morning sky with his one remaining eye. Good. Another one down. 

Praying Much is still on his feet, I swivel round. He is. 

“You said this would soon be over.” Much scowls as another boulder, hurled by one of Richard’s mangonels, smashes into the castle walls. Somebody should have told them that we are inside now and they can cease their bombardment lest we find ourselves on the receiving end of falling stones and mortar. 

“And so it will, my friend. If we can just find and hold Murdac then—”

“Huntingdon.”

There is only one man that calls me by that name. 

Christophe, on foot and covered in blood, steps over the man I have just killed and stands in front of me.

“For a man who has lost his taste for bloodshed, you seem to be doing remarkably well, outlaw.” 

“I am doing my duty and you know it. Now, get out of my way.”

This is the first time I have exchanged words with Christophe since our arrival at the king’s camp. Richard, keen to avoid atrocities on his own doorstep, had warned his master-at-arms and bedmate – now former bedmate, I had since learned – to avoid contact with both Guy and me if he wanted to, in his words, ‘keep his not-so-pretty head on his shoulders’. 

I make to push past Christophe, but he quickly steps in front of me.

“My liege lord’s castle,” Christophe says, throwing out his arms to indicate the inner courtyard, littered with dead and dying men, “will be won more easily if its constable were in irons.”  

“That,” Much bristles, “is not my master’s fault. If the sheriff does not show himself then how—”

“Robin!”

My knees buckle slightly, and I silently rejoice. Richard had charged Guy with overseeing the assembly of his siege engines in a field some two miles distant from the king’s main camp in the forest. When I had protested, arguing that Guy knew nothing of trebuchets and battering rams, Richard had warned that if I did not remain silent on the matter he would leave me in his woodland camp, clamped in irons. Angry at my warning Murdac of the king’s imminent arrival in Nottingham, Richard had decided to punish me by putting me in charge of the archers, thus keeping Guy and me apart until we were advancing on the castle, when we had only been able to exchange the briefest of words before the fighting began in earnest.

“You,” Guy snarls, skidding to a stop beside me. 

“Gisborne,” Christophe says, eyeing Guy as one would a piece of rancid meat.

I notice Guy’s gloved hand tightening around the hilt of his sword. “Don’t,” I warn. “Now is not the time or place.”

Guy lets go of his sword. “You will get what’s coming to you, crusader, make no mistake.”

Christophe shrugs, clearly unconcerned. “And you will get what’s coming to you when Richard learns you have left your command of his siege engines.”

Very quickly, as we approached the portcullis – raised from within by the handful of men who had used the disused tunnel where Allan, Guy and I had hidden just a few days ago –Guy had told me that he had abandoned his post in order to fight with me, as was his wish. I had not tried to dissuade him, despite my fear of him losing his life within these walls.

“Robin! Over there!” 

I unclench my fist, the one I’d been about to smash into Christophe’s face, thankful for Little John’s timely intervention. That thankfulness, however, turns to dismay as John waves his staff towards the castle steps. Pouring out of the main door are scores of black and red-coated men-at-arms. Reinforcements. 

“This way.” Guy waves us towards the bulk of our own men.

“Is Murdac with them?” I shout, trying to make myself heard above the din of curses and cries, neighing horses and clanging weapons. 

“No,” Christophe shouts back, running alongside us. “He’s not.”

“How can you be so sure?” I realise I must put aside my dislike of Christophe until the fighting is over.

“Because I know where he is, that’s why. Follow me. There is no time to waste.”

Without waiting for my response, Christophe turns and sprints towards the east tower.

“Robin?” Guy queries. 

I don’t know what to do. Should I stay and protect the king, as is my sworn duty, or go after Murdac in the hope that his capture might mean a swift end to hostilities?

Turning back to the courtyard, I espy Richard, whirling his sword about his head as if he were warding off a swarm of wasps. Still sitting astride his fine warhorse, the king plunges his great broadsword into the neck of an attacker, roaring in triumph. At his cry, several of our men, including two on horseback, surround the battle-hungry king, despite Richard bawling at them to get out of his way and let him prove he is the greatest fighter in all of Christendom.

Deeming Richard safe, I yell at Much to get a message to the king telling him that Christophe knows where Murdac is and that we are going after him. 

“But, but—”

“No buts, Much. Just do it.”

“There might be hundreds . . . well, maybe not hundreds . . . but a great number of men protecting the sheriff. At least take some more men with you. You can’t risk—”

“If Christophe thought Murdac was being guarded,” I interrupt, “do you think he would be so foolish as to go rushing into the castle alone? He may be a bootlicking toad, but he is also an experienced knight. Besides, he values his neck too highly to risk losing it. Now go.”

Giving Much a push, I turn and charge after Christophe, Guy at my side.

“Be ready for anything,” I tell Guy, as we slip through the east tower door and ascend a narrow, spiral staircase. “Especially the need to get out fast.” 

“He’s in the great hall,” Christophe calls, doubtless hearing Guy’s and my boots pounding up the stone stairs. 

Reaching the top of the stairs, we find Christophe, helmetless, holding a flaming torch.  Nodding at Guy, I remove my own helmet and he does likewise. In the gloom of the castle, it is preferable not to be wearing a sight-restricting head covering. We cautiously follow Christophe along the dimly lit corridors towards the innermost part of the castle. 

On reaching the great hall’s massive oak doors, Guy whispers, “How do you know Murdac is hiding in here?”

“Because this is where the concealed entrance to the old sheriff’s tunnel is,” Christophe whispers back, having obviously studied the detailed map that Guy had presented to Richard shortly after our arrival at his forest encampment.

He pushes open the double doors and, swords at the ready, we follow him through. Apart from the furnishings, the hall appears empty. “And that,” Christophe says, louder now, “is how I will be making my escape once I’ve dealt with you two.”

The double doors slam shut behind us. Turning around, we find two men-at-arms pointing swords at us.

“A trap,” Guy mutters. 

We turn back to the hall to find four more of Christophe’s henchmen – quite possibly the ones he had with him the day Guy was stripped of his clothes and forced to lie in the snow – stepping out from behind the hall’s wooden panelling, the entrance to Vaisey’s escape route from the castle.

Seven armed men, including Christophe, against the two of us. 

“Robin,” Guy says. “Tell me you have a plan.”

I have been a fool. Desperate to capture Murdac, so the fighting might end and my nightmare – of Guy plummeting to his death – might not come true, I had been willing to trust a man who has hated me almost from the moment we first met. 

I shake my head. “Sorry.”

“Then we fight,” Guy says, charging at Christophe.

I swivel round to take on the two men at our backs, sick at heart, knowing that Guy’s proud moment – standing victorious atop the castle battlements alongside me – is about to be denied him because of my stupidity.

A cold, hard fury claws up my throat. Dodging a wildly swung sword, I bring my scimitar down on my opponent’s arm, parting sword-hand from wrist. The injured man drops to his knees, screaming in agony. Without drawing breath, I block his companion’s answering sword with mine, and then feint a lunge for his legs, before despatching him with a vicious slash under his chin. 

“Please, no. Robin!”  

Dizzy with dread, I spin round. Guy is on the floor, face bleeding, his sword gone. Five men, led by a cruelly grinning Christophe, are readying their blades, preparing to plunge them into whatever part of his body they can reach. The only reason they have held off, I am sure, is so that I can witness the event.

“I’m here,” I cry, leaping towards his attackers, even though I know I don’t stand a chance of fighting them all off. 

The hall’s double doors smack open and John, Much and Allan burst into the room.

“This,” Much shouts, wielding shield and sword, “is a rescue!”

“Ha, ha!” I exclaim, rounding on Christophe. 

“No,” Guy cries, grabbing my ankle. “He’s mine.”  

With a bellow loud enough to shake the roof timbers, John whacks an advancing man-at-arms round the head, knocking him out. Allan, his two swords whirling and slicing, swiftly deals with two more of our attackers, while Much, with an elated, “Take that!” batters the remaining man’s face with his shield, John finishing him off with a bare-knuckled punch to his temple. Knowing he cannot fight us singlehandedly, Christophe turns and races for the wooden panelling, intent on escape.

Pushing to his feet, Guy quickly retrieves his fallen sword. “I will have him,” he says, wiping a gloved hand across his bloodied mouth and striding towards the hidden tunnel.  

“No,” I tell him. “Let him go. He will not get far.”

“That’s right,” Allan says, sheathing his two swords behind his back. “He can’t escape.  Like I told you, the exit’s caved in.”

Quickly closing the gap between us, I lay a staying hand on Guy’s arm. “No good can come of revenge. Christophe will pay for what he has done today, especially if the king gets word of it. I am certain Richard’s punishment will be a lot worse than a swift death by your sword.”

Glancing towards the wood panelling, Guy says, “You are right. Revenge is no balm to the soul and I would do well to remember that. Now, I believe we should get back to that king of yours lest you want to fall out of favour with him yet again.”

As we race back down the corridors, I thank my friends for their timely arrival. 

“You’ve got Much to thank for that,” Allan says. “He told us that he thought you might be heading into trouble. We all know Much tends to exaggerate, but when he mentioned Christophe and where you were going I thought it sounded a bit iffy.” 

“Well, I’m very grateful, to all of you. We both are,” I add as we reach the door leading to the east tower steps and Guy hands me my helmet. 

One behind the other, we descend the narrow staircase. At the tower door, the gang ready their weapons. With a quiet, “For England,” John opens the door and my friends rush outside to join the tumult of fighting men.

Clutching his sword, Guy makes to follow. 

I grab hold of his wrist. “Be careful.”

He glances from my gloved hand to my face, partially obscured by the nose-pieced helmet. “You too.” He gives me a swift kiss, our helmets clashing.

Side-by-side, we step out into the dazzling March sunshine and bloody carnage.

“Where’s the king?” Guy asks. 

Hurriedly, I survey the courtyard. “There.” I point at Richard’s standard, flapping in the stiff breeze, and the crowned man standing beside it. The king’s beautiful white destrier is lying on the ground, a crossbow bolt through its neck.

In the short time we had been gone, it seems the fighting had not abated. There are many more men on the ground, both Murdac’s and our own. Some are quite still, others twitching and moaning, mumbling prayers or crying for their soon-to-be fatherless families, some crawling across the blood-splattered cobblestones, their life spark not yet extinguished.  Doubtless Murdac had warned his men not to yield under any circumstances and Richard, too, seemed intent on continuing the bloodshed, clearly deciding that none of the enemy were worth ransoming.

“And where is Murdac?” I wonder aloud.

“That scum Christophe might have been right. The coward is probably hiding in the castle or maybe he—”

Guy pauses, notices me flexing my fingers.

“Your arm, is it—”

“It’s fine.”

It’s not fine. It’s hurting. But I’m not about to tell him so.

Determined to end this thing before someone ends me, I tell Guy I have a plan and to be ready. Then, weaving past battling men and leaping over dead and dying ones, I race across to a pile of barrels on the far side of the courtyard calling out to Allan as I do so.

Dressed as a castle servant, Allan had earlier used the tunnel leading from The Trip through to the upper bailey of the castle to secret in a pouch of Greek fire – courtesy of the ever-smart Djaq who handed it to me upon our leaving the Holy Land, in case it should ever be of use.

Reaching inside one of the lower barrels, I scoop up the pouch of deadly black powder, along with my bow and quiver. With the pouch safely tucked into my knife-belt and my quiver of arrows buckled on, I clamber up to the topmost barrel, raise my bow and nock and loose several arrows in quick succession, impaling two of Murdac’s men and scattering others.

“It’s Robin Hood!” someone cries, and there is a momentary lull in the fighting as men from both sides stop to look about them. 

“Now that I’ve got your attention,” I shout, “I would strongly suggest that you lay down your arms, otherwise this Greek fire,” – I pull the pouch from my belt and hold it aloft – “will do some serious damage to both you and this castle.”

If I’d looked in Richard’s direction, I’m sure I would have seen him glowering at me. He had warned me that I should only use the Greek fire as a last resort. The last thing he wanted was to win back a ruined castle.  

Richard’s men, quickly sensing the danger, are scurrying out of harm’s way.

“Tell me where your cowardly sheriff is,” I demand, “before this black powder comes into contact with my arrow.”

“You need a flame to make it go boom,” a voice calls.

There is a ripple of laughter around the courtyard. 

“Good job I’ve got one, then,” I say, breaking into a triumphant smile as Allan, flaming torch in hand, slips out of a narrow door hidden behind the barrels and clambers up beside me. 

“Now, I’ll ask you one more time. Where is Murdac?”

The torch trembles, Allan clearly terrified that I am about to carry out my threat. 

“Over here,” a voice calls.

“Hallelujah,” Allan says, holding the torch out of harm’s way.

I look up. On the opposite battlements stands a solitary crossbowman. Murdac. Directly below him is the king who, determined to rescue his injured standard-bearer and leaving the protection of his guards, is alone.

“Sire!” I yell.

Richard, down on his knees and seemingly unaware of the danger he is in, raises his head.  Clad only his light desert armour – which he insisted on wearing despite my arguing against it – he stands little chance of avoiding death or serious injury from a well-aimed crossbow bolt.

I drop the pouch of black powder at my feet. Guy is charging towards Murdac, sword raised.

“For the king and Robin Hood!” he yells. 

Murdac swings round, aiming the lethal crossbow bolt at Guy, and my nightmare – of Guy falling from the battlements, this time impaled by a deadly shaft of iron-tipped oak – seems about to come true.

Whipping an arrow from my quiver, I take aim and let it fly, almost weeping with relief when the crossbow smashes on the courtyard cobbles. Roaring in fury, Murdac draws his sword. A heartbeat later, he topples from the battlements, my arrow through his neck. He hits the ground with a bone-crunching thud.

For a short while, there is no sound other than the faint moans of injured or dying men and the soft whinnying of horses. Then, slowly and carefully, Murdac’s men lay down their weapons. The fight for Nottingham Castle is over. 

The king’s injured standard-bearer, limping but smiling bravely, leads a horse over to Richard. Patting the lad’s shoulder, the king heaves himself into the saddle. 

“I thank you, brave sir,” Richard calls, raising a gloved hand at Guy. 

I may have fired the arrow that killed Murdac, but it was Guy’s initial challenge that saved the king’s life and Richard knows it. 

Sheathing his sword, Guy gives the king a small bow.

Shakily, I climb down from the barrels and make my way towards Murdac’s lifeless body. I crouch beside him and stare at his pallid face. His brown eyes are gazing sightlessly at the clear blue sky, a trickle of blood seeping from the corner of his mouth.

Straightening up, I scan the courtyard for my friends as well as looking for men who are injured and need help. As I kneel to offer words of reassurance to a young knight who, I know from experience, is only moments from death, I hear a strangled cry. I leap to my feet.  Murdac’s master-at-arms and a handful of men are charging up the steps towards the battlements – towards Guy. 

My stomach drops to my boots. The eyes in my nightmare, staring sightlessly towards the heavens, were blue, bright blue. 

Sliding my bow from my shoulder, I reach for an arrow. My quiver is empty. I draw my sword and race towards the steps at the opposite end of the battlements, a great chasm opening up in my chest, my throat so tight I can scarcely breathe.

“Guy!” I rasp. “Look out!” I charge up the steps.

Hearing the barely concealed terror in my voice, Guy’s head snaps up. 

“Run!” I shout. 

“I can’t,” he cries, waving me away and sliding down the merlon he has been leaning against.

“What is it?” I gasp, reaching him and grabbing his chin, forcing him to face me, knowing we only have moments to spare before Murdac’s vengeful deputy and his men will be upon us.

“My leg.” He grimaces, drawing up his knee-length mail hauberk and pointing at the slashed and bloodied leathers underneath.

It must have happened during the fight in the great hall and Guy had kept it to himself in case I forbade him to rejoin the battle.

“Leave me, Robin.”

“No. I’m not leaving you. Get behind me.”

“There are too many of them.”

“Then we have to run.” I wrap my free arm around Guy’s waist and heave him to his feet.

“Robin!” John roars. He is waving frantically towards the west tower.

I shake my head. The tower stairs may be clear of the enemy, but Guy will not make it; even now, he is leaning heavily against me, threatening to pull us both over the edge and onto the courtyard below.

“No,” John cries, making frantic arm gestures.

Of course, my madcap backup plan, made because I believed my nightmare to be a prophecy, one I was determined to outwit.  

“Guy.” I drop my sword at my feet and point.

“You’re not serious?”  

“I am.”

“The fall will kill us.”

“Possibly.”

“It’s not Locksley pond.”

“No.”

“Or the sea.”

“Not a drop of water in sight.”

Guy stares into my eyes. He remembers.

“On the count of three,” he says.

I nod.

We count one, and jump.

 


	36. Endings and Beginnings

“You and your heroic ideas. Do you know what that witch did to me?”

Wincing, Guy pushes himself out of the fireside chair. I wave him down and, with a grunt, he falls back into it.

“You hurt your leg before we jumped,” I point out, “and it was hardly my fault you landed so gracelessly and dislocated your shoulder.” Wearily, I remove my weapons and drop the weighty leather pouch given to me by King Richard onto the dining table.  “And for your information, Matilda is not a witch.”

“Ha! You could have fooled me.” 

“Actually,” I say, circling my aching right arm, “we did fool you, you and Vaisey, but I guess you don’t want to be reminded of the holy pork episode.” 

Guy shakes his head, turns to stare sullenly at the dwindling fire. 

“So, what did Matilda do to you?” I ask.

“She used a needle with an eyelet the size of my fist and joked about not being sure which bottle contained a draught for the pain and which one was poison.”

“The size of your fist?” I give him a disbelieving look.

“Yes, and I’m sure if I hadn’t stayed conscious during the whole procedure she’d have stitched something rude and incriminating on my leg. As it was, I had to put up with a tirade of unseemly words that would make the most worldly of men blush.”

“You should be grateful,” I say, struggling to keep a straight face. “For all her forthrightness, Matilda is a good and kind soul. She has looked after me and mine for a long number of years; and she has kept quiet about the two of us.”

“That still doesn’t give her the right to call me a great, steaming—”

“A great, steaming what?”

“Nothing. It doesn’t matter.”

He turns back to the fire, but not so quickly that I don’t see his mouth twitching. Despite his ill humour, I think he rather enjoyed trading insults with Matilda.

Lacking the energy to drag another chair in front of the fire, I kneel on the fireside rug and place a hand on his knee. He doesn’t look like the Guy I know and love, dressed in peasant clothing, but his ripped and bloodied leathers were beyond saving, and I expect Matilda took great delight in parting him from them in order to treat his slashed leg and damaged shoulder. I have no idea who the clothes belong to – certainly they’re not mine – but I have no doubt Guy will want to replace them as soon as possible as the breeches are not only too tight but also end halfway up his shins. 

“She was right about one thing,” he says.

“What was that?”

“She said that if I got caught up in Robin Hood’s games I was bound to get hurt sooner or later.”

“Fighting to regain Nottingham Castle, not to mention saving the King of England’s life, can hardly be called a game.”

“And jumping into a cartload of straw from a great height is a sensible thing to do, is it?”

“You didn’t seem averse to it at the time.”

“I didn’t have a choice.”

“There are always choices.” 

“Being run through by Murdac’s crazed master-at-arms did not seem a better option.”

“I don’t know why you’re grumbling. It worked, didn’t it?”

He lays a fire-warmed hand on top of my ringless one. “I’m sorry. I know I should be more grateful. You saved my life, after all.” 

“And you saved the king’s.”

“I think it was your aim that saved the king.” 

“You were the one who distracted Murdac, giving me time to shoot.”

He playfully smacks my hand. “Are we going to spend all evening arguing about this?”

I laugh, as relieved as he is that the battle he had been anticipating and I had been dreading is over, that we are back in Locksley, behind closed doors. 

“I missed you,” I say, shuffling along on my knees so I am facing him, “when we were in the king’s camp.”

“I missed you, too. The nights can get cold in that damn forest.”  

Leaning forwards, I brush my lips across his roughened knuckles. “That damn forest, as you call it, owes me a lot.”

“Robin?”

“What?”

“We’ve hardly seen each other for the better part of a week. Surely you can manage more than a chaste kiss on the back of my hand. After all, the last time you were down on your knees in front of me, it wasn’t exactly my hand you were kissing.” 

He parts his legs so I can move closer, then leans towards my upturned face and kisses me. I kiss him back.

“You’ve already eaten,” I say, when we eventually break apart. 

“In case it’s escaped your notice, I’ve been waiting ages for you to come home.”

“I’m sorry. Richard kept me longer than I expected. Do you want to go upstairs?”

He glances at the stairs that lead up to our bedchamber.

“As much as I’d love to celebrate our victory yesterday, I think the witch’s draught is still affecting me and I fear I would not be much of a bedmate. Besides,” – he pokes me in the ribs – “you should eat.”

“I will, but not yet. If you have no need of me right now, then I am going to go see the gang, tell them what happened with the king.” 

“But it’s getting late,” he protests. “Can’t it wait until the morning?”

“No, it can’t. When I sent the gang back to the camp, I told them I would join them as soon as I could. Seeing as you’re about to fall asleep, I think now is as good a time as any.  Besides, you know how Much frets.”

“Very well.” He knows that where the gang is concerned, it is pointless trying to argue with me. “But won’t you at least first tell me what the king said, or are you afraid it will displease me?”

“On the contrary. There is nothing the king said that will displease you.”

“Don’t tell me he didn’t ask you to accompany him on his next campaign, or that he didn’t offer you the chance to take the place of that fucking bedmate of his?”  

“Yes, he did ask me to accompany him to Normandy. I refused, much as I refused the offer of two of his Angevin duchies. But, no, he did not ask me to lie with him, not today, and not in the future. Richard is no fool. He knows when to let a thing go. He knows I have everything I want – here.”

I grasp his hands, notice the flecks of blood caught under his fingernails and the thin red smear on the upper wrist of his sword-arm. I don’t doubt that I will find myself similarly bloodied once I take the time to undress.

“That’s all very well.” He yanks his hands from mine. “But we can’t stay _here_ , can we?  Not now. Talk of our bedding one another has already spilled into the taverns, and that will soon spill into the streets of Nottingham, and then into the villages, and, very soon, it will reach Locksley, even if the people here do not already suspect, and we, or rather you, will be done for. Because they won’t forgive you, Robin, no matter that you helped save the king or that you are their lord.” 

I resist the urge to remind him that not so long ago he wanted to besmirch my name by shouting our sins from the rooftops.

“I should go,” I say, coming to my feet.

He grabs my arm. “We need to talk about this.”

“We will.” I shrug him off me. “But not tonight.”  

Turning my back on him, I make for my weapons. Nottingham may be free of Murdac and those of Prince John’s followers who refused to kneel before Richard, but no one has seen Christophe since the castle battle and I don’t want to take the chance that he isn’t still around and intent on harming either Guy or me. Such is my worry, and especially for Guy, that I have posted guards – half a dozen of Richard’s men – around the perimeter of Locksley. 

“I should have known things wouldn’t change,” he says. “That you would continue to put your friends before me, before us.”

Sliding my bow onto my shoulder, I pick up my quiver and am about to buckle it on when I notice the thin roll of parchment tucked in between my replenished arrows. I turn around.

“Guy. Very soon, my friends and I will most likely part company, or at least we will no longer see each other as often as we once did. Surely you would not deny me the chance to thank them properly for coming to our rescue at the risk of their own lives.” 

I extract the roll of parchment, stride back to the fireside and press it into his hands.  “Here. Perhaps this will give you some cheer.”

“What is it?”

“Well, it’s certainly not a shopping list, even though our recent diet leaves much to be desired.” I nod towards the dining table, still bearing the remnants of his earlier meal: an inedible looking pie and a jug of ale.

Ignoring my attempt at humour, he breaks the seal and unrolls the parchment. His eyes travel down the manuscript and widen.

“Do you know what this is, Robin?”

“I would say it’s probably a document pardoning your act of treason in the Holy Land.”

“I did not think the king would go so far as . . .” 

The parchment trembles as he re-reads the inked words, as if to be sure they actually say what they say.

“Richard may be arrogant and ruthless,” I say, “but he knows how to reward those who have served him well, those who would risk their life in order to save his. What you did yesterday, in the castle, deserves nothing less.”  

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Well, I hope you’re going to say you accept it. I’m certainly not giving it back.” 

Closing his eyes, he slumps back into his chair.

“Thank you,” he says, though I’m not sure whether he’s thanking me for handing him the parchment or the king for giving it. 

He opens his eyes and starts re-reading the document, a smile on his face. As he does so, I make my escape.

~

By the time I reach a familiar clearing, not far from the camp, I am bone-cold and my stomach is growling with hunger. I also have the uneasy feeling that someone is following me. 

I dismount, securing my horse’s reins to a sturdy branch. Removing my riding gloves, I blow warm breaths into my cupped hands, trying to bring my frozen fingers to life. Then, with rather less agility than usual, I climb the well-remembered branches of the Kissing Tree and squat on a particularly wide branch that Marian or I used to sit upon while waiting for the other to escape their father’s ever watchful eye or their tiresome chores. I recall the ring I buried at its roots, and the silver band Guy gave me, lost under the winter leaves. My hand feels bare without it.

A man on horseback enters the clearing. Although almost dusk, there is enough light to make out the rider’s coat of mail and the fine courser he is sitting astride. As he nears my hiding place, he looks up at the evening sky. Instantly, I recognise Christophe’s swarthy face and dark, neatly trimmed moustache. I nock and aim an arrow. 

“Looking for someone?” I call.

Christophe looks towards my hiding place. “Huntingdon.”

“That’s the Earl of Huntingdon, to you.”

I glance around me and strain my ears for any sound not usual to the forest. I find none. Christophe is alone.  

“Don’t you know the forest can be a dangerous place,” I taunt. “I hear thieves lurk in the greenery waiting to jump on unsuspecting travellers.” 

“And is that what you’re going to do, outlaw? Jump on me?”

“Well, I would, but I’m not an outlaw any more. King Richard has rescinded that particular title for services rendered. Now, let me see. I wonder how he will choose to reward his master-at-arms for attempting to murder his most loyal subjects.”

“Loyal! Gisborne is a traitor and you also by association. Any man who tries to kill my liege lord deserves to die.”

“And any man who tries to kill my friends also deserves to die. Now, get out of my forest unless you want to become a permanent part of it.”

“You won’t kill me.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Because when we were in the Holy Land, I used to watch you. Oh yes, you did your share of killing, when you had to, when there wasn’t any other way. But you also spared the lives of the infidels if you could. Richard knew, of course, because I told him. But he never did anything about it because you were his blue-eyed boy.”

“Tell me, Christophe, what did I ever do to you that would give you cause to hate me, apart from the fact that I held the king’s favour?”

“Yes, you held his favour, but it was me that warmed his bed. I thought, given time, he would reward me for my services rendered, as you put it. I was willing to do anything the king desired – anything! But whose name did he cry out as I slammed into his royal backside, as he spilled his seed onto the royal bed? Yours! Robin-fucking-Locksley. Not mine. Never mine.”

“I think you’ll find that Richard paid a lot more mind to his kingly duties than he did to his kingly playtimes.”

“And I’m about to pay more mind to my duties as the king’s man by ridding this forest of outlaw scum, starting with your friends.”

“Then I hope you’ve brought plenty of provisions with you, because you’ll be a long time trying to find our camp.”

“I don’t need to find it. An old medicine woman I caught heading out of Locksley kindly told me where it was.”

_Matilda._

“What did you do to her?” I almost say ‘and Guy’ but swallow the rest of my words in case Christophe is unaware that Guy is holed up in the house. My heartbeats quicken as I imagine Matilda lying on the cold, muddy ground, one of the few lives she is unable to save.   

“Nothing. I merely said that I was looking for you and your friends.”

“I don’t believe you,” I say, keeping my words measured despite my mounting fear. 

“Believe what you will. I showed the old woman the royal insignia I wear and said I had just come from the king and had an important message for my good friend Robin Hood and must find him at once. She was suspicious, the stupid old bat. Asked me if I’d taken the cross with you and, if so, did I know of the chain you wear around your neck and the story behind it. As you know, the king liked to drink, and talk, mostly about you and your exploits, so I knew the answer. That’s when she told me, in careful detail I might add, the location of your forest camp. I thanked her most courteously and sent her on her way. I figured that as soon as the king let you go you’d be heading back to that pesky gang of yours and your traitorous lover, so I made my way to the forest and, sure enough, here you are.”

Reassured that Matilda is alive and well and Guy has come to no harm, my heart ceases its painful hammering.

“I think I should point out,” I say, “that even if you manage to get past me, there are four of them against one of you.”

“Ah, but I have the element of surprise, not to mention a small pouch of Greek fire on my person.” Christophe pats his saddlebag.

“You’re lying.” I grip my bow tighter, ease the fletched end of my arrow to my ear. I may not be able to easily pierce his mailed chest, but I can certainly maim him or, if needs be, his horse.

With an exaggerated sigh, Christophe slowly unbuckles the saddlebag and withdraws a pouch, holding it up to show me. One look at the distinctive red and gold leather is enough to convince me that it is the same pouch I threatened Murdac’s men with in the castle courtyard. 

“How did you get hold of that?”

“When I found I could not escape the tunnel,” he says, clearly enjoying the chance to brag, “I went back to the castle, first making sure the courtyard was clear of the living. I had thought to make my way out the main gate when the king’s standard-bearer appeared and asked me if I had seen the Greek fire that Robin Hood had threatened to blow up the castle with. My interest was piqued, of course, and it didn’t take me long to find the very same.” He grins, like someone who has worked out a trickster’s sleight of hand. “I’m sure your camp is a lot flimsier than the castle walls.”

Laughing, he tucks the pouch back into his saddlebag. Drawing up alongside my horse, he pulls a dagger from his belt and cuts its reins from the tree. With a hefty whack on its hindquarters, he sends my horse off at a gallop and then turns in the direction of the camp and my friends who will be patiently waiting for my arrival. 

“Give me the black powder or I’ll shoot,” I warn, aiming my arrow at his horse, knowing I cannot possibly catch him on foot, no matter how fast I run or how well I know the forest. 

He keeps riding.

“Last chance,” I shout. 

He reins in his horse, wheels it around and gives me a teasing wave. “So long, Huntingdon.”

A small oval of face, several yards distant and indistinct in the evening light. But I am the best archer in Nottinghamshire, possibly the whole of England. He should have remembered that.  

~

“Where have you been?”

“Well, that’s a fine welcome, I must say.” Dismounting Christophe’s horse, I grin at Much’s begrimed face. “Cooking disaster?”

“What? No. Well, yes actually, you see—”

John scowls at Much. “I’m sure the last thing Robin wants to hear about right now is your cooking woes.”

“I was not about to—”

“Robin!” Slopping water, Allan plonks down the pail he is carrying and sprints over to me.  “Not being funny, but we thought maybe you’d forgotten about us and were living the high life in the castle, stuffing your face with whatever it is that kings and noblemen stuff their faces with.”

“Would I do that?”

“Well, you might. After all, if the king has done what you said he would do, that means you’ve got your house and lands back, and your title, and we’re out of a job.”

“It’s true; I have got those things back. As for you having to work for a living . . .”

Allan’s eyes flick to the saddlebag. 

“Uh, uh,” I say, wagging a finger at him. “I think I should warn you that this saddlebag does not belong to me. Moreover, it contains one small but rather deadly pouch of black powder.” 

“I thought the king gave you a stallion?” John says, frowning at my horse.

“This is not my horse, John. It belongs to Christophe. Or I should say, the late Christophe. And before you ask what happened, do you mind if I sit? It’s been a long day.”

“How is Guy?” John asks. 

“Thanks to Matilda—” I pause, laughter bubbling as I imagine Matilda, needle hovering over his injured leg, asking Guy how to spell an obscene word.

“Robin, what is it?” John asks.

I swallow down my laughter and compose myself. “Sorry. I’m not quite myself. Relief, I guess. Relief that it’s all over. Guy is quite well, although he won’t be competing in a running race any time soon.”

“And what about you?”

“I’m fine. Nothing that a decent meal, a bath and a bed won’t put to rights.”

“We could probably do the bath and bed,” Allan says, a cheeky grin spreading across his face, “but I’m not so sure about the meal, a decent one, that is.” He deftly ducks as Much hurls a long-handled spoon in his direction. 

“Very funny,” Much says. “Why don’t you try catching and cooking a few things for a change. Then you’d see just how difficult it is to find and prepare food in this miserable forest.”

“Much,” I say. “I am hungry enough to eat the horse I’ve just ridden in on, so even if you’re about to serve me bat stew, I won’t complain.”

“I wouldn’t joke about it,” Allan says, hands across his face in case another spoon comes his way. 

Muttering under his breath, Much returns to his kitchen. 

Once we are all seated, bowls of steaming stew on our laps and a newly lit fire warming our hands and faces, I tell the gang about Christophe.

“Good riddance to bad rubbish,” John says, before bringing his bowl to his lips and downing the liquid part of it in a series of enormous gulps.   

“Wing of bat, eye of newt,” Allan mumbles, pushing the contents of his bowl around with his fingers.

I laugh and choke on a mouthful of food.  John bangs me on the back. I wave him away, croaking that I’m fine. Sometimes John doesn’t know his own strength.

By the time I have drunk a large mug of ale, I am breathing normally again, much to everyone’s relief. 

“Blimey,” Allan says. “You survive a pirate’s blade, near drowning, a fight to the death and a pitched battle, only to die at the hands of your servant.”

“I am _not_ Robin’s servant,” Much says, glowering.

“That’s right,” I say, my chest tightening at the thought that these friendly, or occasionally not so friendly, meal times together are almost over. “Much has long been a free man, but now he is also the owner of a goodly-sized and profitable estate. Indeed, he is a lord.”

“You mean,” Much asks, uncharacteristically laying down the piece of food he is about to shove into his mouth, “I have my Bonchurch?”

“That’s right.” 

Allan groans. “Oh, God. That means we’ll have to start calling you lord Much again.” 

“You can also,” Much says, standing and dramatically hurling his soup bowl into the trees, “do your own cooking from now on, for I shall be served by _my_ servants.”

Allan turns to me. “Tell me I have my own lodge, preferably somewhere far away – like France.”

“Well, you don’t actually have a lodge, but I believe there’s enough gold back at Locksley for you to build one if you so desire. You too, John.”

John shakes his head. “I don’t want or need a lodge. All I want is a bit of peace and quiet and the chance to go find my Alice and my boy, share whatever wealth I have with them.” 

I nod in understanding. “What about you, Allan?”

“I don’t know. I think I might do a bit of travelling, you know, see the world.” Allan rubs his hands together and grins.

I can’t be certain whether it’s a trick of the firelight or not, but I swear his eyes are glittering with something other than the thought of being rich. 

“On the other hand,” he says, staring into the fire. “I might just stay here. Not in the camp I mean, but in Nottingham. There’s this sweet little thing who works in The Trip who . . .”

He trails off and I realise that a moment that should have been full of joy and eager expectation is actually turning into something rather painful.

The fire cracks and spits, and I think of Guy and wonder if he has fallen asleep in front of the fire back in Locksley. 

“I should tell you about the new sheriff,” I say, summoning up a smile.

“Whoever he is, he certainly can’t be worse than the last two we’ve had,” Allan remarks. 

“He’s called William de Ferrers. Apparently, he’s the Earl of Derby, but I can’t say I’ve heard of him. Anyway, Richard speaks highly of him, and I’m sure he’ll make a fine sheriff.” 

“I thought maybe you might be the new sheriff,” Much says. 

“No, I’m not sure—” I was about to say I’m not sure I’m even going to stay in Nottingham, but seeing Much’s long face, I decide against it. 

“Not sure what?”

“Nothing. It’s not important.”  I feign a yawn, the jumble of thoughts about what I should or shouldn’t do in the coming days overcoming my earlier tiredness. If I weren’t worried about how it would look, I would head back to Locksley now, despite the cold and dark, in order to avoid the inevitable questions about my plans for the future.

As if reading my thoughts, John leaps to his feet, says, “We’ll all have plenty of time to decide where and how we’re going to spend the rest of our days. Right now, it’s late and we should sleep.” 

Giving John grateful looks, Allan and Much make for their beds.

I wait for John to follow them and when he doesn’t, I bid him sit and say whatever it is he seems determined to say to me.

For a short while, we sit in silence, staring at the dying embers of the fire. Then, following a sigh that reaches down to the soles of his boots John says, “I almost didn’t do it.”

“Didn’t do what?”

“Put that cart in place, like you asked me to do. I thought perhaps it would be a greater kindness to let it end there and then, so the people would remember you as Robin Hood, Nottingham’s hero, not the person you’ve become.”

“Do you detest me so very much, John?”

“You know I don’t. And, if you want the truth, I have seen a side to Gis . . . Guy that I never thought I would see. But I still can’t condone what you and he are doing and I never will.”

“I know.”

“So, what will you do then?”

“I don’t know yet. Would you rather I leave Nottingham?”

“It’s your choice, Robin, not mine.” He stands. “I’ll say goodnight, then.” 

“Goodnight, John. Sleep well.”

When the fire is nothing but ashes, and deeming everyone asleep, I make my cold and weary way to bed. 

Much is not asleep. He is sitting on his bed, hugging his knees to his chest. 

“I thought you’d be in the land of dreams,” I say, tucking my bow and quiver under my bed, along with my sword. 

He yawns. “I’m not tired.”

I sit on my bed, opposite him. “Come on, then. Say it.”

“Say what?”

“Say whatever it is that’s troubling you.”

He fiddles with the edge of his blanket for a moment before saying, “Nothing is as I thought it would be.”

“And how did you think it would be?”

“I thought that you would be in Locksley, with . . . with Marian, making . . . you know, babies, and I’d be looking after you both and—”

“What about Bonchurch? I thought that’s what you’ve always wanted?”

“I did. I do. I’m just going to miss not being with the people I care about, even if they do get on my nerves sometimes.”

“What about Eve? You said you would go and look for her once Nottingham was safe and the king restored.”

“But where would I start looking? No, Robin. I can’t spend the rest of my days chasing a dream.”

“It doesn’t have to be a dream.”

His head snaps up, his eyes alight with hope. “Will you help me look for her?”

“You know I would if I could, but I—”

“No, of course. You already have someone waiting for you.”

“For what it’s worth, I didn’t think it would be like this either. If you’d said a year ago I’d be planning some sort of future with Guy, I’d have thought that you’d been eating dodgy mushrooms.”

“Are you really happy with him?”

“Much, it may not be what I once wanted, or thought I wanted, but right now I would not have it any other way. Unlike you, I have never believed in the Fates, but maybe the moment he and I came to blows on that boat out of Acre we were destined to be together.”

“Well, if that’s how the Fates work, remind me never to get on the wrong side of Allan.”

I smile and lightly punch him on the arm. “At least you’d never go short of a purse,” I say, thinking of Allan’s light-fingeredness and wondering, even with the generous reward from the king, whether he will ever be able to change his ways.

“Nor jests about my cooking.” He tugs off his boots with a blissful sigh. “I want you to know that if you are happy then I am happy.”

“I am happy.”

“Good. Then I will try to be happy for you. Oh, and just one more thing?” 

“Yes?”

He rubs his stockinged feet and slips them under his blanket. “When you’re back in Locksley, promise me you’ll eat properly.” 

I laugh. “Not you as well.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Go to sleep, Much.”

“That’s, go to sleep, my _lord_ Much,” he says, tugging the blanket up to his chin. 

I make to chuck my boot at him and he dives under the covers.

~

I wake to the sound of heavy rain and the fearful thought that Guy has died in the night and I am alone again.

After hurriedly tugging on my boots and securing my knife-belt and weapons, I gather the few belongings I have stashed under my bed and make my way outside.

Despite the downpour, I had expected to see Much preparing the morning meal. Instead, the gang are busy packing up the camp with a haste that suggests they want to get this over with as quickly as possible. I notice someone has saddled my horse.

“No breakfast?” I ask.

Allan shakes his head. “I think Much has decided this lord thing starts today whether we like it or not.” 

“I think you’ll find,” John says, thrusting a bundle of something or other into Allan’s hands, “that Much isn’t up to catching our morning meal today.”

“What?” Allan rolls his eyes. “One day of fighting and he’s all done in?” 

“One day of saying goodbye and he’s all done in.” John turns on his heel and strides towards our sleeping area. 

Much is standing by my horse, fiddling with its bridle, even though I can see it needs no adjusting.

“All right?” I lay a hand on his arm.

“Yes, good, fine, wonderful. Apart from the rain thing.” He wipes his face as he says this, but I don’t think the rain is the reason for his wet cheeks.

“Not much to show for all the time we’ve spent here, is it?” He waves an arm towards the few bits and pieces lying in the middle of the clearing, getting soaked.

“It was never meant to be forever,” I say.

“No, nothing ever is, is it?”

He turns to face me and I pull him into a fierce hug.

“I hope Guy knows how lucky he is,” he mumbles into my shoulder.

“He might not think that when I start giving away our newly acquired fortune to the poor.” 

He squeezes me tightly, clinging onto to me as a drowning man would to a piece of driftwood. “Look after yourself, Robin.”

“I will.”

“And come visit me in my lodge so we can properly celebrate the king’s return. We will have a great feast with lots of cakes, like the ones we had at that wedding in the forest when that girl with the necklace got married, and . . . I’m talking too much, aren’t I?”

“Much?”

“What?”

“I’ll miss you, too, my friend, but right now you need to let go of me, unless you want to come back to Locksley and practice your bedside manner on an injured man with very little patience, who resents wearing anything other than black leather.”

He lets go of me.

 


	37. Everything is a Choice

“How could you!”

The slap is hard and stinging and catches me unawares.

“What was that for?” I ask.

“You deserved it.”

I touch my smacked cheek and my fingertips come away bloody. Rowena has reopened a cut I got during the castle battle. I glance at the narrow door that separates the main room of the cottage from Thomas’s bedchamber.

“Don’t worry about Thomas,” she says, realising I am anxious about being overheard. “His poor wife died three days ago and he has gone to church to pray for her soul. Well, that’s what he says, though I think he is most likely in a tavern, drinking himself into a stupor.” 

“I’m sorry, about his wife, I mean.”

“Don’t be. She was in a great deal of pain and is better off where she is now.” 

“So,” I say. “Do you want to hit me again, or will you tell me what I’m accused of?” I tense my right arm, ready to catch her hand if she decides to take another swipe at me.  

There is a blazing fire in the grate, warming the sparsely furnished room. If I had gone directly to Locksley, I would be in dry clothes by now, sitting in front of the manor house’s huge hearth, instead of standing here with a bleeding face, in rain-sodden clothes, working out how to tell the angry girl standing in front of me that I am no longer going to marry her.  

“Thomas saw you.”  Rowena grips her woollen shawl, hugging it to her chest.

“Saw me where?”

“Running through the streets of Nottingham, with _him_.”

“Him?”

“With Gisborne. He said men and dogs were chasing you. He saw you running down Battley Street. He said you were holding hands. Was Thomas mistaken?”

I shake my head.

“You told me you were going to end it with him. You promised me.”

“And you let me think I was the father of your child.”

Her brown eyes widen. She opens her mouth as though to protest but no words come out.  The shawl falls to her feet. For the first time, I notice the swell of her growing baby. 

My chest tightens as I think of Guy, in and upon whom I readily spill my seed, my children who will never be.

“How did you find out?” She folds her thin little arms across the straining bodice of her dress. 

“It does not matter how I found out. And I did not come here to punish you for lying to me. I know why you pretended the child was mine and I do not blame you. What Murdac did to you was despicable.”

Rowena glances out the window. “If he finds out about the child and wishes to claim it, he might come for me. As your wife you could protect me, you could—”

“Murdac is dead.”

“Dead?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“I should be. I was the one who killed him.” 

Rowena leans forward and, thinking she is about to fall, I quickly close the gap between us, grasping her upper arms. 

“Here, it’s all right,” I soothe, drawing her into my chest and wrapping my arms around her.

I do not think for a moment she believed Murdac would want to have anything to do with his bastard child. But nor do I blame her for attempting to provide for herself and her unborn child, for trying to bring about the kind of life denied her by an uncaring father and the company she had to keep upon his ridding himself of her. 

“You’re all wet,” she says, her voice clogged by tears.

“That would be the rain.” I stroke her loose hair and tuck a few strands of it behind her ears. “So you see,” I say, “Murdac cannot hurt you now. You are safe.”

Her crying soon subsides. I am not surprised. She never struck me as the sort of girl who would resort to tears to get what she wants.

Easing out of my encircling arms, she wipes her wet cheeks and says, “I am glad he is dead. I only wish I had done it myself. I did try once.”

“I’m sure you did.” I touch my bloodied cheek.

“I should tend to that.” She picks up her fallen shawl and waves me towards a chair.

I nod, grateful to rest my weary limbs.  

While she fetches water and cloth, I sit quietly, staring into the depths of the fire. I wonder whether Guy soon fell asleep after I left him last evening and whether he managed to rouse himself from the fireside chair, or awoke this morning, stiff-limbed and cold, to find no fire in the hearth, nothing on the table, other than the remains of a day-old pie, and no me.

Rowena places a bowl of water at my feet. She kneels in front of me and dips a strip of cloth into the water.   

“Your poor face has been through the wars,” she remarks, tenderly dabbing my cheek.  “There is a white scar, like a sliver of moon, on your forehead.”

I recall the fight with Dumont’s men in Le Havre, before we sailed for England. Someone must have been wearing a studded ring.

“I should learn to stop making people angry.”    

“So should I,” she says. “There, all done.” She puts the bowl aside and comes to her feet.

I stare at the cooking pot hanging over the fire and my stomach growls. 

She smiles. “Hungry?”

“If it’s not bat stew, I wouldn’t mind something to eat.”

“Bat stew?”

“Sorry, private joke.” 

She ladles a thick broth into a bowl and passes both it and a wooden spoon to me before pulling up another chair and sitting beside me.

“You’re not wearing your ring,” she says, watching me eat.

“I lost it.”

“Oh, for a moment I thought perhaps . . .”

“You thought Guy and I had parted company since Thomas saw us in Nottingham?”

“Yes.”

Another spark of hope dashed. I remind myself that Rowena’s condition is not my fault, though I am still guilty of using her for my own ends, reason enough to ensure that I do all I can to look after her and her child in the years to come, provided she stays in Nottingham, of course.

“I should tell you that Guy helped save King Richard’s life.”

“Really?” She gives me a disbelieving look. “Next, you’ll be telling me he’s taken up embroidery.”

I think of Guy, laying the fire, making up our bed, replenishing the water in our washstand. 

“Give it time,” I say with a smile.

In between mouthfuls of belly-warming broth, I tell her about our assault on the castle, Murdac’s intention to kill the king and Guy’s heroic if somewhat foolhardy attempt to kill Murdac before he could loose a quarrel at Richard.  

“What Guy did was very brave,” she says. “After all the stories Much told me of him, it’s hard to believe he would do such a thing.” 

“Guy has changed since we . . .”

“Since you became lovers,” she says, patting my thigh as though she is forgiving an errant child for getting up to mischief. I had forgotten how easy she was with the idea of two men indulging in fleshly pleasures. I believe it was never the fact that Guy and I shared a bed but that I had chosen him over her that she resented. 

She kneels by the hearth to tend the fire and I realise that time is passing and I should get back to Locksley before Guy starts to worry about me. 

Thanking Rowena for the food, I stand and unlace a coin purse from my belt. I hand it to her. She pulls the ties securing it.

“Robin, this is a fortune. I cannot possibly take—”

“It is yours, yours and the child’s.”

Closing the purse, she drops it into a small clay pot standing next to the fire’s hearth.  “Thank you.”

I do not need to tell her that I will no longer be marrying her. Truth be told, I think she knew it the moment I walked in the door.

I gather up my weapons. “What will you do now that Thomas’s wife is gone?”  

“I don’t know. I think I might stay here for a bit. Oh, I know Thomas can be a grouch sometimes, but he actually cares a great deal for me, says I am the daughter his wife could never have. And I think he would quite like to have a baby in the house.”

“He may not think that when the child is screaming to be fed.”

She smiles. “Thomas will find out what I have had to put up with, then.”

“There is always room for you in Locksley if you change your mind about staying here. I believe Luke Scarlett has room in his house since his family are no longer with him.”

_Listen to me! I’m turning into Matilda and becoming a matchmaker._

“Thank you. I will bear that in mind.”

“At least promise me you’ll visit Much, at Bonchurch. I know he enjoyed your company and you didn’t complain about his cooking. Not that he will be cooking now, being a lord.” 

“Dear, funny Much. I shall be happy to visit him.”

Both Luke and Much are sweet on Rowena. She’s an easy girl to love. If my head and heart had not been full of Guy, perhaps things might have turned out differently for her and me. I’d like to think I’d be generous enough to take her on even though the child she carries is another man’s. Whether Much or Luke would be willing to do so, I don’t know. Time will tell, I guess.

“Good. It’ll give Much an excuse to arrange for a plateful of honey cakes. Not that he ever needs an excuse to eat cakes.”

With nothing else to say, I make my way to the door. It has stopped raining. A weak sun is pushing through the ragged low clouds.

“Look after yourself,” I say. “And the little one when it comes. Don’t forget to ask for Matilda’s help with the birthing. She’s a wonder, that woman. And if she’s not available, then Little John is a dab hand at delivering babies should yours decide to come into the world about face.”

“I am hoping for a girl,” she says, stroking the folds of her dress. 

“Have you thought of names yet?”

“For a girl, no. But if I have a boy, I shall call him Robin.”

“Well, let’s hope that if you have a boy your Robin does not disappoint you as I have.”

“You have not disappointed me. Indeed, I think I am the one who is a disappointment.”

“No. You’re a brave girl who deserves a better life than the one you’ve had so far. I hope this child will be the start of that better life.” I swiftly kiss her cheek. “Take care of yourself.”

“You too.”

She watches as I mount my horse and then shuts the cottage door.

~

By the time I reach Locksley, it is mid-afternoon. As I step into the hall, I half expect to see Guy slumped in front of a darkened hearth, ready and waiting to hurl abuse at me for staying away so long.

Instead, I find a blazing fire, a table laden with food and Guy limping towards me, a goblet in each hand and a smile on his face.

“What did they do?” he asks, handing me a cup of wine. “Tie you to a tree?”

 _No,_ I think. _You’re the one who ties people to trees._ I don’t voice the thought; I’m sure he would prefer to forget that vicious episode in our relationship.

The pewter cup is warm to the touch, as though he has been holding it for some time.

“No,” I reply. “We packed up the camp this morning and I left ahead of the gang. I went to see Rowena.”

“Oh?”

“If you recall, I asked her to marry me.”

“I trust you un-asked her?”

“Yes.”

“How did she take it?”

I finger my cut cheek.

He laughs. “You’re getting slow if you did not see the hand of a young girl coming for you.”

“Where did all this come from?” I ask, gesturing to the table, piled with meats breads, fruits and cheeses.   

“Word has quickly spread of the king’s victory and the part you played in it. Your peasants have been knocking on our door all morning wishing to show their appreciation. I told them you had business elsewhere and when they asked if there was anything they could do, I said they could bring food, and so they did.”

“Have you eaten?”

“No, I waited for you, though I confess I did take one or two bites, and I should probably desist from drinking much more of this wine.”

“My peasants can be resourceful, but even they can’t turn water into wine,” I say, raising my cup at Guy.

“The wine is courtesy of the king. Apparently, he wishes to see Sherwood before he departs for the coast and he sent a messenger here to ask you to accompany him. The man was most disgruntled when I told him you weren’t here.” 

I take a mouthful of wine and then place the goblet on the table. “I’m glad to have escaped that particular duty. Richard is all for the outdoors, but I think traipsing through a cold, wet forest will do nothing for his temper.”  

Scrapping back a chair, I sit, feasting my eyes on the lavish spread in front of me. Guy limps to the other side of the table and sits opposite me.

“How is the leg?” I ask, picking up bits of foods at random.

“Not bad considering the mauling that scabby witch gave it.”

“I should watch your mouth, Guy. One day, Matilda is going to put a curse on you.”

“I thought you said she wasn’t a witch. Besides, she’s done that already.” Slowly tearing meat from bone, he grins across the table at me.

“What was the curse?” I ask.

“For your sake, I hope this particular curse doesn’t come true.” He glances at his lap, looks up and meets my eyes.

I put down the chunk of meat I am holding. My heart beats faster. The low swoop in my stomach has nothing to do with being hungry. 

Abruptly standing, Guy pushes his chair back and, with remarkable speed, makes his way around the table. I push my own chair aside and turn to face him. 

“God, I’ve missed this,” he says.

He places warm hands on either side of my face and kisses me. I grasp his shirt and yank him into my chest. He grinds his hips against mine. He’s already hard, and I won’t be long in catching him up. 

“If any of those peasants of yours come knocking with dessert,” he says, “I’ll fucking kill them.”

~

“Shame we don’t have any servants,” I say, eyeing the wine jug we knocked over while ravishing one another.

Clutching the edge of the table, Guy pulls himself to his feet. “We should really talk about that.”

“We will. But let’s eat first. It would be a pity to let good food go to waste.”

I grab some bread and cheese and make for the stairs. Guy follows, shouting up at me that in future I can pick up my own clothes.

I sit in bed, eating and watching him wash. When he joins me, I tear off a hunk of bread and hand it to him. When I tell him I’m thirsty, he resists telling me he’s not my servant and offers to go downstairs and fetch us some wine. As he limps towards the curtained doorway of our bedchamber, I almost call him back, but then that cruel little part of me kicks in. After all the years he spent trying to capture or kill my friends and me, I think I deserve some small retribution.

He returns with the wine, placing both jug and goblets on the bedside table. Limping back to the curtain, he pulls it across the doorway in an effort to keep out the draught.  Not that it will do much good; we still haven’t fixed the broken window shutter and the last item of clothing we stuffed in there to plug the gap has since been used or lost.

“Looking at something, Locksley?”  

“I was thinking we must be careful with that leg of yours. Perhaps it ought to have more bindings on it?” 

“And I’m the Sheriff of Nottingham,” he says with a laugh. “You don’t fool me, Robin.  I know you like to look. And who wouldn’t? After all, I do have the most magnificent, not to mention lengthy—”

He gets no further, as I snatch up his pillow and hurl it at him. 

“No!” he howls.

Too late, the pillow smacks into his face. Savagely, he kicks it away.

“Oh, come on,” I say. “It’s only a feather-filled piece of cloth.”

Despite his injured leg, he bounds towards the bed.    

I turn to look at the sheet where his dagger would normally lie, inexplicably afraid. Lying on the sheet is not a dagger, but a ring, the ring he gave me all those weeks ago, in the forest, before that first heady kiss that changed everything.   

“It was meant to be a surprise,” he grumbles. “I wanted to wait for the perfect moment to give it to you.”

“How about now?” I pat the sheet beside me. 

He picks up the ring and sits next to me, scowling. 

“I’m sorry.” I lay a hand on his thigh, the uninjured one. “I wasn’t to know you had that hidden under there. How did you find it? You once told me the forest looked all the same to you.”

“I admit it wasn’t easy. But when I found the tree where I . . .”

“Where you tied me up?” I offer.

“Yes.”

He turns away from me, uncomfortable at the memory.

“Go on,” I say.

“That’s it. I started searching through the leaves until eventually I found it.” 

“When was this?”

“While I was overseeing the construction of the king’s siege engines.”

“If Richard had decided to make an inspection that day,” I point out, “and you were discovered absent, you might have found yourself in trouble. Was a ring really worth the risk?”

“Yes.” He hands me the engraved band of silver. “Because it’s your ring and because when I gave it to you, you chose to wear it when you could easily have thrown it away.”

“Thank you,” I say, sliding it on my finger.

Guy swings his legs over the side of the bed, limps across to the corner of the room, picks up his pillow and limps back, a grim look on his face. He whacks me around the head with it.

“What did I do?” I cry, as he continues attacking me with the pillow.   

“Thank you!” He flings the pillow aside and grabs hold of my ankles, pulling me flat on my back. “I spend near on a whole day grubbing around in wet, mouldy leaves, looking for what comes close to being a needle in a haystack, and all you can say is thank you. Robin of Locksley, Earl of Huntingdon and hero of Acre, when it comes to expressing gratitude, you’re the world’s worse.” He plonks onto the bed.

Through the gap in the broken window shutter, I can see the sun, now low in the sky. I wonder if Marian gazes, day after day, at the sky above her resting place. I hope she is at peace. I hope she sleeps easy tonight knowing that her beloved Nottingham is safe, King Richard restored to his throne. Many moons ago, while looking for a caged pigeon, I proposed to her, and we agreed we would marry when the king returned to England.

Guy lightly touches my scarred right arm.

“What is it?” he asks.

“Nothing. I’m all right.”

_I promised myself I would be honest with him. No more lies. No more secrets._

“I was thinking of Marian, actually.”

He lies down beside me. “I know this is probably not the sort of friendship she had in mind for us two, but I’m sure it is better than us continually trying to kill one another.”

“You may be right,” I say, turning the ring around and around my finger, “but when, and if, we get to Heaven, I think Marian might have something to say about it.” I turn on my side so I am facing him.

“Undoubtedly,” he says, fingering the small, crescent-shaped scar under his left eye, courtesy of Marian’s strong right arm and a large-stoned wedding ring.

“Sleep?” I suggest.

He taps my ring. “Gratitude first.”

~

It is morning. Bright sunshine is streaming through the broken shutter, casting a finger of light on the blanket covering us. I ease myself up the bed and lean against the headboard, staring down at a sleeping Guy.

After expressing our gratitude last evening, we talked about inconsequential things, like what to do with the uneaten food on the dining table, where Guy might purchase some new leathers and whether we should ask the new sheriff to lower taxes. Then we settled down to sleep, neither of us wanting to talk about what was really on our minds – the future.

Guy opens his eyes and smiles up at me. “How long have you been awake?”

“A while.”

He sits, so our shoulders are touching.

“What are your gang going to do now that they are no longer outlaws?” he asks, unwilling, it seems, to broach the subject that we both know we have to talk about.

I tell him about Much and his Bonchurch, about John wanting to seek out his wife and child. He asks about Allan, and I tell him that I have no idea what Allan will do, other than he seems intent on remaining in Nottingham, for the time being at least. I propose we keep an eye on him. The new sheriff may be a fair and just man, as Richard suggested, but that doesn’t mean he will ignore criminal acts and I’ve had enough of breaking people out of the castle dungeons.

“And what about us?” he asks.

“Well,” I say, “I think we should most definitely get a door for this room and fix that window. It’s freezing in here.”

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

“I know.” 

I stare out the window. It is a new day. A new day with no king to save, no woman to un-betroth, no gang to lead. A new day when I must decide where we go from here. Guy is right. Too many people already know our secret and the rest soon will if the gossipmongers have their way. We are wealthy men now and wealthy men have a habit of doing what they like and getting away with it. Indeed, my people might even reluctantly accept our ungodly ways because I am their lord and what I say goes. But I can’t do what I like, not because I am rich and a noble, but because I am, and forever will be, regarded as Robin Hood, the outlaw who championed the poor and the helpless, an honourable man in every respect.

Guy curls his fingers around my ringed hand. I smile, reminded of our early days together and our frequent hand holding.

“Do you remember,” I say, “when you once asked me if I would go to France with you and I said no?”

“Yes, I remember.”

“Well, I will now. I’m sure it will be easy enough to find someone to run my estates for me. My people will forgive me many things, but not this. And as much as I sometimes hated being Robin Hood, I do not want that name dragged through the mud and, quite possibly, my friends along with it.”

“You just want to be loved,” he says, letting go of my hand.

“Doesn’t everybody?”  

“You could deny it, if you are accused, say it was a malicious rumour spread by your enemies.”

“I could, but I think maybe it’s already too late for that.” 

I think of Thomas, who saw us holding hands as we ran down Battley Street, the guards who came upon us, suspiciously close to one another, in the forest, the Black Knights in the tavern, Matilda – the list goes on. And who hasn’t wondered about all the weeks we’ve spent in this house, just the two of us, with no servants, other than Elisabeth’s irregular visits? 

“You’re probably right,” he concedes. “Not so long ago, the only thing I was intent on was ramming your head on a spike. Now I am happy to break bread with you. I guess we were always fooling ourselves in thinking we could carry on without anyone suspecting we were up to no good.

“It was worth it, though,” he continues, absently stroking my thigh. “Those weeks we spent here with no one bothering us. They were the happiest weeks of my life.”

I feel guilty and sad. Despite his grief over Marian and my misgivings about us being lovers, Guy still regards the three months we spent here, untroubled by the sheriff or his men, as the happiest he’s ever been.

“If we go to France or somewhere else,” I say, “we could have that again.” 

“No, Robin. A few weeks ago, I’d have jumped at the chance to go away with you, somewhere where no one has heard of Robin Hood or Guy of Gisborne.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” I mumble. 

He slaps my arm.

“Ouch, that hurt.”

“You deserved it. I’m trying to be serious here. You’ve risked life and limb fighting to keep your peasants safe, ungrateful lot though they are sometimes, fighting for your beloved Locksley. How can you possibly think of leaving it now, now that you’ve finally won the day?”

“It’s just people and timber and fields and—”

“No, it’s more than that and you know it. This place is your life; it’s everything you’ve ever loved and wanted. Otherwise why would you have come back here after Marian died?”

“I came back because that’s what I promised her I would do.”

“Maybe. But I think you also came back because it’s your home.” He glances at the bedside table, at the curtained doorway and at the wall that we fucked against. “If Marian were here now, what would she tell you to do? And don’t give me one of your childish witticisms.”

Resisting the urge to say _she would tell me to kiss you, long and hard, so she can see what she is missing,_ I say, “She would tell me to do the right thing, to think of my friends and the people I care about, which means leaving Nottingham.”

“Perhaps Marian was not the best choice,” he says.

We lapse into an uneasy silence. Outside, children shriek and call to one another as they play, a cart rumbles by, the March wind whistles through the manor house’s timbers. 

“Robin?”

“Yes?”

“I was thinking. If we leave Nottingham, together, it is unlikely to disprove the rumours about us bedding one another. If anything, it will confirm the fact.”

He has a point.

“Then what do you suggest we do?”

Fighting a smile, he says, “I have a plan. Well, half a plan.”

I laugh. “Really?”

“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to say that.”

“So, what is this plan of yours? Because if it involves us pretending we’re really brothers or non-identical twins, then you can think again.”

“No, it involves Knighton.”

“Knighton?”

“Yes. As you know, I once wanted lands of my own, my Gisborne. And, as you also know, that is no longer important to me. But I think your people are well aware of my previous desires and would not think it strange that I should want an estate, especially as I now have the means to do so. So, I was thinking of rebuilding Knighton Hall, in memory of Marian.” 

“And living there?”

“Yes.”

“Then we will not be together after all,” I point out. 

“Not always, no. But we will be near neighbours and neighbours visit. Besides, I’ve heard you’re quite good at gaining entry into other people’s property unseen. And there’s always the camp if we want to be certain of some privacy.”

“That’s true.”

I slip out of bed and pad across to the window. I throw open the shutters despite the biting wind. In the distance is Sherwood Forest, a place I love almost as much as I love Locksley, maybe more. I turn back to the bed.

“All right. We’ll try it, and if it doesn’t work out, we can always reconsider. After all, there are always choices.”

He looks me up and down.

“Now who’s staring,” I say. Shivering, I make for the pile of clothes that he tossed into the corner of the room last night. As I pass by the bed, he grabs hold of my wrist.

“What?” I ask.

“Seeing as the sheets are already spoiled, shall we have a little fun? I mean, it’s not as if we’ve got anything better to do today.”

He yanks me onto the bed, rolls on top of me and looks deeply into my eyes. 

I still don’t know if this will prove to be my undoing. But as Guy presses his lips to mine, as he pushes his cold feet between my warm ones, of one thing, I am certain – faced with the same choices all over again, I would not choose any differently.

**The end**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has followed this story and to those who kindly commented along the way.


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